


Fire Away

by orphan_account



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Captain jack - Freeform, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Fluff, Holsom playing match maker, Hurt/Comfort, Jewish Holster, Jewish Jack, Jewish Ransom, M/M, Pitcher Bitty, Slow Burn, Zimbits Happy Ending, brief Bitty/OMC, college baseball au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-14
Updated: 2017-10-24
Packaged: 2018-12-15 03:04:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 38,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11797074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: When pitching prodigy Eric Bittle leaves Georgia State for Samwell, he's not sure what to expect--though very little is a surprise.  It's a frat haus with a lot of beer and a lot of bros.  But he doesn't expect to earn the ire of the Baseball team Captian, Jack Zimmermann, a man with an arm like a god, and the world's biggest chip on his shoulder who hates pitchers--even those on his own team.  Bitty just wants to survive to graduation, play good baseball, and maybe find love in his life.  If only the universe agreed with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I got talked into watching [Everybody Wants Some](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt2937696/) which is a baseball frat film with so many similarities to SMH and the haus I almost cried. I watched on the promise of Tyler Hoechlin [ in a crop top](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/ba/51/c4/ba51c48a2b3eaff023f3df8d8f1c7d62.jpg) hitting baseballs with an ax (the film absolutely delivered), and apart from the casual misogyny and one occasion of a homophobic slur (which will not feature in this fic), it wasn't too bad.
> 
> And of course it inspired a Zimbits AU.
> 
> I will warn you now, I know fuck-all about baseball, so my information is coming off that film and some research online. I'm not trying to make this like, a guide for How To College Baseball, so take everything with a grain of salt, okay? I mean let's be real, we're just here for the Jack Bitty enemies to lovers tag, aren't we?
> 
> I will put warnings in the tags, but there is typical frat behaviour in this--drugs, alcohol, bad decisions. And typical SMH-Haus warnings- Jack being an arsehole, Ransom and Holster being ridiculous, everyone taking turns on Nursey duty. It's a semi-slow-burn, about 6-10 chapters, we'll see. I know I shouldn't be starting another WIP but what are you gonna do. When I'm inspired, I'm inspired. This shouldn't affect my updates of Then There Was You, which should go up in a day or two.
> 
> I have some of this pre-written, so the first few updates may be faster than usual. Though the film takes place over the course of a weekend, I'll probably take it a little longer than that for the timeline.
> 
> Disclaimer: Check Please and the characters are all the amazing brain-children of Ngozi who deserves all the praise!
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Put up your dukes,  
Lets get down to it  
Hit me with your best shot  
Why don't you hit me  
With your best shot  
Hit me with your best shot  
Fire Away  
-Pat Benatar

*** 

Maybe it was a product of his mother’s southern passive aggression and desperate need for neatness and order that had him wrinkling his nose at the state of the…well, it was technically a house, but he wasn’t entirely sure it should be called that. It was green, with a blue front door, and the roof shingles were tattered. There was a flat awning with four beat-up lawn chairs and a couple of tipped over beer bottles, and Eric was a hundred percent sure that the weight of a fully grown athlete would send them crashing through, let alone _four_. The front garden was unkempt, the shutters hanging on by threads, and even this far from the front door there was a certain… _smell_ , like a mixture of weed, body-odour, and cologne.

He sighed, his palm sweating from clutching at the handle of his suitcase, his stomach in knots because this—this is what he’d given up everything for. This is what he’d changed his life, and moved away, and gave himself over to.

A frat house.

It wasn’t something he ever expected. Eric hadn’t ever imagined he’d play baseball, for one. His hands had been made for kneading dough, his legs for carrying him in spins on the ice fast and elegant enough to earn him medals. He’d only decided to take-up baseball at Georgia State because they didn’t have figure-skating and his dad always said he could throw a pitch. And frankly it was one sport Bitty could do that didn’t put him at risk of being flattened viciously by people ten times his size.

He hadn’t expected to be that good, to have a University like Samwell with one of the top rated collegiate teams, court him. Hell, he’d never been courted in any capacity ever in his entire life so…

It was all a bit…well. Unsettling.

It was more that he hadn’t been doing all that well socially—still too petrified to even look at another boy let alone date, and too afraid of setting a toe out of the closet to get close to anyone as friends—that had him moving. Because Samwell was a lot of things—expensive, prestigious, known for their baseball team—but more importantly their motto was One in Four, Maybe More. And Bitty thought if anywhere in the world would mean he wouldn’t get beat up because he wanted to kiss boys well, maybe it was Samwell.

Maybe.

From the state of this over-hyped masculine house he wasn’t so sure.

He was starting to look a little creepy, though, loitering on the front walk like this, so he squared his shoulders and tried to find the confidence he didn’t really have, to make it up the front steps. The porch creaked dangerously under his trainers, and he wondered exactly how this place wasn’t condemned—but all the same, he didn’t crash through as he turned the handle and pushed in.

The smell was worse on the inside, as Eric predicted. He took a breath, told himself there would be time to sort things out before start of term, and really no one caught bubonic plague from unwashed frat bros. Right?

Right?

He heard noises coming from round the corner, and ventured down the small corridor where he dropped his case, then walked through the opening to the kitchen. His breath caught. It was bigger than he expected—a total shit-show of dirty dishes and empty beer, and garbage piled in the corners. But there was an oven—a working range which just needed a little TLC, and massive amounts of cabinet space. The fridge in the corner looked like it had seen better days, but he expected the boys kept it in good working order to keep their PBRs chilled, so he’d be able to find room for the butter he’d need to store, and he didn’t think these boys—frat bros or no—would turn down a nice peach pie.

Just as he reached for the door to one of the cabinets, two of his new teammates walked round the corner from the second kitchen entrance. Eric froze, his eyes going wide at the sight of them. The boys on his Georgia team hadn’t been this…well…large. They were both at least six foot, the one on the right was taller by at least three inches, a white snapback turned backward on his head, his biceps bulging out of a Canadian Flag tank top.

The other well…Eric had never been so intimidated by a simple gaze. The guy’s sleepy blues were narrowed, his jaw set, one eyebrow arched. He was as broad as the other guy, only a little shorter, and his arms were crossed tightly over his chest.

“Can we help you?” he asked, his voice heavily accented with something Eric couldn’t quite make out straight away.

“Erm. I’m…”

“New guy! Hell yeah. You’re fucking small,” said the Canadian shirt guy. He held out a fist. “Justin Oluransi, but everyone calls me Ransom. Left field.”

Eric gave his hesitant fistbump, then glanced at the other guy who made it quite clear he had no intentions of offering the same. “Eric Bittle.”

“Bittle, nice,” Ransom said, stepping back as the other guy shoved past Eric to get two beers out of the fridge. “You what? In-fielder?”

“Pitcher,” Eric said, and the blue-eyed guy turned and stared.

“Merde, ça me fait chier,” he muttered. He dragged a hand down his face, then lifted it in an almost gesture of surrender. “Bittle, we need to get one thing straight here…”

Eric almost laughed at the irony. “Right…”

“I hate pitchers.” He said it with such finality, with such dry seriousness, it made Eric startled.

“He does, it’s true.” He eyed him. “Are you a lefty?”

Eric blinked. “A…uh. No, no I’m not, why?”

“Because leftys are fucking weird. Holster, he’s fucking weird.”

“Fuck you man, I love Holster,” Ransom snapped.

The guy rolled his eyes toward Ransom. “Yeah, I’m aware. He’s also fucking weird.” He sighed, then turned back to Eric. “Look, we’re teammates, and that’s…whatever. I can’t do anything about that. But just because you’re living here and on my team doesn’t mean we’re going to be friends. And if somehow you make it pro which, let’s face it—I mean, look at you,” he glanced Eric up and down once more, “don’t think you’re going to get an edge on me, okay? We’re not going to act like we know each other. Got it?”

“Um,” Eric said. It wasn’t entirely the welcome he was expecting.

“Is that your shit in the hallway?” he asked, nodding at Eric’s case.

“Oh, um…”

“You should take that upstairs.” He stared Eric down, and as Eric moved toward where he’d dropped his things he heard, “Oh and Bittle…you need to eat more protein.”

Shaking with confusion, a little rage, and a lot of embarrassment, Eric dragged his case up the stairs, and into a strange, curved maze of hallways. He didn’t stop until he smelt the heavy scent of what he’d come to recognise as bong-smoke, and he came to a stop in a doorway where two guys were staring at what looked like a poorly constructed bunk bed. There were bits and pieces lying around the floor, and Eric wasn’t sure it would have held anyone. The two guys were in the corner of the room—the one standing was drawing his hands back through his long brown hair, the moustache under his nose a thing of pride. The other was sat on a chair with a book on his lap, wearing a loudly coloured Hawaiian print shirt, his face so nondescript Eric was almost scared with how plain it was.

“…and it’s like…here I am in my element,” the moustache guy said. “I’m here doing what no one in my fuckin’ family ever had the balls to do, right? Break tradition, go against the grain. I’m just like youuuuu…” His word trailed off as he turned to see Eric there. “You! New guy. Shit, brah. How fucking long have you been standing there? You’re like a goddamn spy. Fuck.”

Eric flushed, but said a small prayer his welcome would be at least a little warmer with these two. “Sorry I uh…I’m not sure where I’m supposed to put my things. I’m Eric Bittle…”

“New guy. Catcher, in-fielder, pitcher?”

“Pitcher,” Eric said, holding out a hand which he was given a sort of make-shift high-five.

“Sweet. I’m Shitty Knight, short-stop, this is our catcher, Johnson…”

“I’m enjoying the meta in this AU. Pitcher suits you, Bittle,” Johnson said, winking.

Eric blinked at him. “Uh. Okay?”

“Catchers are always fuckin’ weird, don’t worry about it,” Shitty said, waving his hand at Johnson. “And since you’re the first Frog, you can pick whatever room you want. No one’s in a single, but Johnson’s always fuckin’ gone so if you room with him you’ll have the place to yourself a lot. Only caveat is that you’re across from our illustrious Canadian and resident haus grump, Captain Jack. Met him yet?”

“Maybe?” Eric said, shrugging. “I met two guys downstairs. The one with the accent told me he hates pitchers, even his own teammates. Then he told me to eat more protein.”

“That would be Jack. His sweet, gorgeous, Canadian ass is just like that. It’s a thing. You get used to it.” Shitty slung his arm round Eric’s shoulders. “Johnson, how do you feel about this?”

“Feels right,” Johnson said. “For the plot. You won’t see me much, no worries.”

Eric blinked, but Shitty seemed utterly unfazed as he ushered Eric out of the room, and down the hall to the place he would eventually call his own.

*** 

Eric had a lot of expectations about Samwell—the ability to be himself, even if he was still shaking in his boots at the thought of coming out to this house—or haus, as it had been dubbed—full of jocks. But he hung his Beyoncé without regret, put curtains up in the room after asking Johnson and getting a reply of, “Whatever, man. It doesn’t do anything for the narrative, but I like a good spring colour scheme.” He reorganised the kitchen cabinets—really, what did these boys need with so much sriracha anyway—and made up a list of things he’d have to pick up at the supermarket the moment he had free time.

Which should have been that afternoon, but he’d been cornered by Ransom and Holster who dragged Eric into Ransom’s old—well Eric wasn’t exactly sure what sort of car it was, but it gurgled from the back and had a faint smell of coffee—and headed down what Holster called Greek Lane. “This is the best way to get the hook up on all the pre-term parties,” he explained elbowing Ransom in the arm. “Seriously, if you walk into your first day of classes without at least a semi-epic hangover, then you’re not doing it right.”

“Y’all realise I’m not a freshman, right? I transferred here from Georgia and…”

“Oh my god he literally says y’all. Like…without any irony. God that is the best fucking thing I have ever heard. Shit.”

Eric sighed, sitting back in the seat, crossing his arms. 

“Okay, so we need to focus here. You wanna get your dick wet, Bits?” Ransom said, “Holtzy and I are your best shot. We’ve literally gotten everyone laid. Even Jack.”

Eric almost choked on his own tongue, but it didn’t entirely surprise him that someone would want Jack. It only surprised him Jack would want anything to do with anything that wasn’t baseball. “Uh…”

“Seriously, what’s your goal here? You wanna top your freshman number of…” Holster asked.

“Zero,” Eric muttered under his breath.

It was obvious Holster heard him by the look in his eye, but he still twisted in his seat, demanding, “Say that again. Say that to my fucking face.”

Eric’s chin stuck out determinedly. “You know, not everything is about sex. Assuming that is offensive.”

Holster pinked. “Oh shit, bro. Are you ace? I totally didn’t mean to fucking…I just…oh my god Shitty is going to literally murder me for…”

“I’m not ace,” Eric said, putting Holster out of his misery. He was, all the same, at least grateful these boys seemed mildly aware of the other sexualities out there. “But I’m not…I’m…” He sighed, then went for it. “I’m gay.”

Holster stared at him expectantly, then his eyebrows flew into his hairline. “Bro. Are we your first?”

“Comin’ out?” Eric asked, then flushed and looked away. “I guess. I mean, the assholes on my daddy’s football team guessed, and they didn’t waste a single second of breath not tellin’ me what they thought about that but…”

“Man, ffffffuck the Football Bros,” Ransom and Holster crowed together, then fist-bumped. Holster then punched Ransom in the shoulder. “Pull the car over, dude. We need an emergency frog meeting.”

Eric didn’t know—nor did he really want to know—what all that meant. He’d been at the haus for less than three hours and apart from already having the ire of his captain for having the nerve to be a _pitcher_ , he’d suddenly been taken in by these two very bro-y bros as if he were their personal project. He felt a well of fear because he realised that might very well be the case.

Shit.

Pulled up against the kerb, both Ransom and Holster spun round to look at Eric. “Okay, so first things first—no one—we mean no-fucking-one, messes with anyone on the team,” Ransom said. “We are family, we take care of our own. We will equalise anyone who comes at you. Secondly, we hate the football bros like…so fucking much. Epic fucking dickholes, seriously. But also like six of them are hella gay, two are bi, like another five unconfirmed. They don’t tolerate that kind of shit either, alright?”

Eric nodded, not feeling better exactly, but the squeezing weight on his chest was starting to feel less. “Got it,” he manged.

“We take party etiquette very seriously,” Holster added. “No fucking around with drinks. Ever. Anyone messes with anyone—team or not—it’s fucking over. You should be able to get schwasted and make bad decisions without you know…not being able to consent.”

“Consent is fucking sexy,” Ransom added.

Eric didn’t really have it in him to explain how there might be a problem with consent and schwasted in the same sentence. “Okay,” he said.

“You wanna hook up, you come to us. You need a safe space to crash, or if you’ve been sexiled, the attic is always open to members of the haus.” Ransom tapped his chin. “There’s like an entire novel of bylaws written in the basement which we’ll do during frog orientation. The others should be here by tomorrow, and Coach Hall wants like a full fucking haus and team meeting anyway. But that’s all you need to know for now.”

“So we good? You wanna scan campus for some sweet booty?” Holster asked.

Eric bit his lip, then said in a small voice, “Well…I mean, it can’t hurt, right?”

He winced at the sound of their high-five.

*** 

By the time they got back to the haus, Eric had a full taste of what it was like to be under the wing of Ransom and Holster. It was…interesting, to say the least. Less frightening than he expected, and when he’d reached the theatre house he’d ended up with an interested drama major, a phone number, and a promise he’d be at the haus opening kegster.

“We knew you had it in you, Bits,” Ransom crowed as they ushered Eric in through the front door.

“What’s he got in him?” Shitty called from the living room. He was upside down on the sofa with an empty Sherlock Holmes pipe clenched between his teeth, nearly naked except for a pair of threadbare boxers with prints of little teddy bears in bowties all over them.

“Potential sweet drama major lovin’,” Holster said, slinging his arm round Eric’s shoulders. “We were rounding up parties, and invites for the kegster. Sunday night, right?”

“Far as I know. Lards will be back by then, I think.”

“Lardo’s our team manager,” Ransom explained, which really explained nothing, but Eric had learnt so far that asking questions only led to more questions so…

He’d figure it out as he went along.

“If y’all don’t need me anymore, I think I’m gonna bake something.” He edged toward the kitchen, but met Ransom’s eye anyway.

“We’re going out tonight though, Bits. You wanna get loved on, we’re gonna get you loved on.”

Eric flushed, but nodded and hurried out. And it wasn’t that it sounded like a bad idea per se, but it was a bit overwhelming. He’d put a toe out of the closet and suddenly there he was covered in metaphorical rainbow glitter with men being thrown at him from all angles. Or as was more accurate, he was being thrown at men from all angles. It was just…new. It was a lot.

He took out his frustration on the butter and flour, on kneading the pie crust so when he got to the filling he could stir a little more delicately, and breathe a little easier.

He was just adding lattice to the top of the crust when he heard a voice clear itself from the doorway. “What is that?”

Eric glanced up and almost groaned at the sight of Jack. “It’s a pie?” he said, confused at the thought that Jack might have never seen a pie before. “Um. Apple.”

Jack scowled. “That’s full of sugar. You cannot just come in here and start filling my players full of junk, Bittle.”

“I…I’m not,” Eric said, flustered. “It’s just a lil pie, Jack. Lord have mercy, I mean, it’s not any worse than the cases of beer in the fridge, or the whatever sort of juice Shitty was talkin’ about for this weekend.”

Jack’s eyes flared wide, and his jaw tensed. “Fucking pitchers,” he muttered, then stormed off.

If Eric punched the dough for the next crust a little too hard well, no one would really notice.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to give a special shout-out to both Steph (prongsquake) and wrathofthestag for so generously offering me advice on baseball. This chapter has been both vetted and approved by Steph for baseball shit (with Ransom and Holster), and I'll be picking both their brains for all the baseball things as we get into the actual sport in upcoming chapters. For now here's more intro of Bitty into his new life in the Samwell Baseball Haus.

“Welcome Samwell Baseball team, to another year, and another potential championship,” Coach Hall said, glancing over at Coach Murray who was tapping away on his phone in a pattern Eric recognised as Candy Crush. “We are rated one of the top teams in the NCAA, which means you have a lot to live up to. That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t enjoy your college experience. Murray and I aren’t stupid enough to think there isn’t going to be drinking and other…debauchery,” there was a titter amongst some of the older players, and Eric saw Ransom and Holster high five between their bodies. “But you’re here because you’re some of the best, and because you take baseball seriously.”

Eric felt a wave of trepidation, and he couldn’t help but look over at Jack who was on the sofa next to Shitty, his arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the coffee table, eyes narrowed. There wasn’t a speck of pride or enjoyment in his face, and Eric had to wonder if Jack ever attempted to enjoy his college experience.

“This year we have a few frogs joining us, hand-picked from their stats. We’ve got Chris Chow—catcher. Stand up, Chow,” Murray ordered, and a tall, gangly guy who looked barely eighteen, decked out in a slightly too-large San Francisco Giants t-shirt, and a Giant’s snapback turned backward over his hair, eased up to his feet and gave a wave.

“Hey, I’m so excited to be here. I was totally surprised to get picked for a team with Jack _Zimmermann_ which is swawesome and…”

“That’s enough, Chow, sit the fuck down,” Hall said, and Chow pinked, and flopped back onto the ugly green sofa against the far wall.

“We’ve got left fielder—Derek Nurse, and short stop Anthony Tangeredi.” Hall motioned for them to stand, and Eric got a good look at them both. Nurse looked like he belonged in a more contact sport, broad in his shoulders, wearing a blue striped tank top with thick biceps, and a tattoo wrapped round his left one. Tangeredi was smaller, lean with wide eyes and a mouth curled into a confused grimace. When they sat, Hall looked at his clipboard. “Freshman Pitcher William Poindexter.”

Another man, as broad and tall as Nurse, bright red hair and freckled, stood up and looked almost as angry as Jack did.

“We’ve also spent the summer courting a couple of guys from other colleges. Two pitchers, to be exact,” Hall said, and Eric felt his heart thump a little harder. “Junior Chad Bale from USC…” Everyone looked over as the bro’iest bro Eric had ever seen stood up. He was wearing cut-offs, a thin tank-top, aviator shades, and a snapback over his blonde hair. 

He lifted his chin. “Sup.”

The haus stared at him, then back at Hall and Eric saw Ransom, Holser, and Jack lift their brows in an, ‘are you fucking serious,’ look.

Hall paid them no mind. “And then we have Eric Bittle, from Georgia State.”

Eric flushed hard, but rose and tried to ignore the clapping and hooting that Ransom and Holster decided were necessary. “Hey, y’all.”

“Bits is fucking amazing, okay. He made us pie, fucking _pie_ ,” Holster said, practically swooning.

“Alright, shut the hell up,” Hall said mildly as Eric resumed his seat, staring at his hands and determinedly not at Jack whose glare he could practically feel. “Now, there are a few rules that I know none of you will follow here. No hanky-panky in your rooms, no drinking, no drugs, do not miss practise, and keep up your GPA because Murray and I will not fight for you. You want to be here, act like it. There’s an optional practise starting Sunday—which Murray and I are not allowed to attend, so try and make it if you can.”

Someone cleared their throat, and Eric looked up as Jack stood. He glanced round the room, his gaze lingering first on the Freshman, and then on Eric before he spoke. His accent was pronounced, but his tone was flat. “Optional means mandatory. If you care about this team, if you want to win, you’re going to show up. Don’t show up, you might as well quit. I don’t have time for people in my haus and on my team who aren’t going to give their all. Got it?”

Ransom and Holster gave a slow golf clap, and Jack flipped them off before brushing past the group, and leaving the room. Hall and Murray dismissed everyone shortly after that, and Eric sat there, not sure what he should do until two large, looming figures stood in front of him. He wondered briefly what god he’d angered that these two had decided to take him under their wing. They were nice—but slightly overwhelming.

“Campus tour,” Ransom said, and yanked Eric to his feet. “Get comfortable shoes on. We’re going to show you the fuck and do not fuck houses on the street, and then we’ll stop by Annie’s before we decide where we’re going to party tonight.”

“Y’all are going to party tonight?” Eric asked, eyes wide even as he was bullied toward the door without being given the chance to actually change his shoes.

Holster laughed, clapping Eric on the shoulder, making him stumble down the last step. “Bits, my sweet, sweet frog…”

“Of course we’re going to party tonight. It’s not only a rite of passage, but it’s basically a requirement for this team. And since you want to get laid…” Ransom said.

“It’s our mission…”

“Nay, our duty,” Ransom said, putting his hand over his heart.

“To see you fulfil that quest,” Holster finished.

“Lord,” Eric muttered, but he didn’t fight them as they ushered him down the street.

*** 

It was near an hour before they reached Annie’s, which was apparently the go-to spot on campus for all the caffeine needs. There was still four days until the start of term, which meant the queue was manageable—not out the door, and there were a few tables under the shade of umbrellas outside which Ransom hurried to grab as Holster manoeuvred Eric inside.

“So there’s a Starbucks like on the other end of campus,” Holster was saying as he pushed Eric up toward the counter. “And if you’re stuck there and you’re desperate, no one will blame you for grabbing a latte or whatever. But bro, it can be considered treason if you pass up Annie’s. Just warning you now.”

Eric fought the urge to roll his eyes, but the campus coffee snobbery wasn’t exactly a surprised to him, so he rolled with it, and ordered a white mocha from the peppy barista who—to the shock of exactly no one—knew Holster.

“Hey babe,” she said, leaning over to kiss his cheek. “What’s happening tonight? Welcome back kegster?”

He snorted. “Nah, not til Sunday, you know. Gotta give the frogs their welcome to Samwell hangovers properly.” He elbowed Eric. “Anyway, Bits, this is March. She’s captain of the volleyball team, and they’re the most down girls on campus. Oh, and she’s Rans’ girlfriend.” He stopped, frowning. “Is that still a thing?”

She shrugged. “Probably, who knows. Tell him that I made his latte with the syrup he left here. He’s outside, right?”

Holster nodded, then leant over and kissed her cheek again before paying, then bossing Bitty to the other end of the counter to wait. There was a small gathering of people, so Eric leant against one of the chairs and watched them work.

“Alright, Bits. I’m sure you have a thousand questions.”

Eric blinked up at Holster, then laughed. It wasn’t untrue. He’d been dragged down Frat Row—they’d gotten phone numbers, hook-ups to weekend parties, they cussed out some members of the Football team, flipped off the LAX house which looked suspiciously empty, then waited outside the drama house while Holster went inside for ten minutes.

But it wasn’t an unfamiliar experience, and really Eric was more concerned about how the team would get along than the brand of beer he’d be drinking later that night. “Can I ask about uh…about…Jack?”

Holster rolled his eyes. “That fuckin’ guy,” he muttered.

Eric remembered Jack saying something about how much he hated Holster for being a lefty pitcher, but he thought it might not be the best idea to bring that up right then. “He just seems to really hate me. And I guess guys have…I mean okay, he’s a really good, right? I mean, he wouldn’t be captain for nothing. Y’all voted him in…”

“We did,” Holster said slowly, then eyed Eric carefully before speaking in a more serious tone which startled Eric. “You gotta understand, Jack’s…when you’ve got a chip on your shoulder like him—size of the fucking grand canyon—he’s going to have a certain attitude. I mean, daddy issues aside…”

“Daddy issues,” Eric said.

Holster shrugged. “You know how it goes. Son of Bad Bob, then everything goes in the shitter for a few years and…”

“Bad Bob,” Eric repeated, confused.

Holster gave him a look which would have been frightening if Eric hadn’t know he was kind of a teddy bear. “You don’t…for fuck’s sake… _Bits_. How the fuck are you on a baseball team and you don’t know who Bad Bob Zimmermann is?”

Eric shrank back, and was grateful when their order was called up. Holster seemed to be struggling under this personal offense, and grabbed the coffees, hauling Eric outside and shoving him toward Ransom. “Our sweet little Bits here doesn’t know who Bad Bob is,” he declared.

Eric flushed red-hot as he sank into the chair, and watched Ransom choke on his first swallow. “Hang on…what the fuck?”

“S’what I said,” Holster replied.

Eric crossed his arms. “Good lord, y’all boys are actin’ like I said I never heard of Nolan Ryan.”

Holster’s eyes widened. “Bro, you kind of are. Like…Bad Bob Zimmermann…he fucking nearly broke Bonds’ record—I mean not as young but…shit. And the dude came out of Canada. Where it’s all like glaciers and hockey and Timbits and moose…”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ransom said, kicking Holster under the table. “He just means to say he’s like a big deal. How do you get through any season of baseball and at least not hear about him?”

“I… uh.” Eric flushed, shrugging. “My daddy’s a football coach, but I was too small, and the boys didn’t like that and um. I actually...I was a figure skater,” he admitted, and braced himself for the blows, which never came.

He peered up at the two and they were considering him. Ransom eventually shrugged. “Yeah, I can see it. So how the fuck are you a pitcher?”

Eric shrugged. “I kind of fell into it by accident, after um. After skating didn’t work out? I guess I had a natural talent. Murray showed up one day after my second two-hitter last year and…”

“Did you say second two hitter?” Holster demanded, slamming the flat of his hand on the table.

Eric flushed deeper. “Yes?” It came out like a question, and he felt himself shrinking back. Logic told him these boys meant no harm, but his past told him that he was about to get stuffed into somewhere small and dark because big boys like Ransom and Holster didn’t like when little gay boys like Bitty were better than they were.

“That’s…fucking…amazing,” Holster breathed. “Holy shit I could make out with you right now except we just met and like…boundaries and shit. No wonder Murray was kissing your ass, giving you a room in the haus and everything.”

Eric felt himself dizzy with relief, and he tried to unwind. “Anyway so…um. So I guess I tried to pick up on all the pop culture baseball stuff but I just…I’m still learning.”

“No sweat, bro,” Ransom said, leaning back and kicking one foot up onto Holster’s thigh. “Basically Bad Bob was like the greatest batter to ever live along with like… you know, Bonds, and Aaron, and Ruth, and Rodriguez, and Mays, and…”

“He gets it,” Holster said dryly.

“Anyway,” Ransom said, giving Holster an annoyed look, “Apparently little Bobby Junior, also known as Jacques…”

“Never call him that, that’s literally not his name and the only thing he hates more than pitchers is being called Jacques,” Holster warned.

“Or Zimms,” Ransom said, and there was a weird, tense silence at the table after that. “So our Illustrious Capitaine Jacques, is basically the spit of Bob. Bob was playing for the Pirates and as a joke they brought Jack out to hit a few balls…and apparently he hit a two base run against their pitcher who—at the time—was on a four hit streak. This eight year old kid, right? Embarrassing the fuck out of some twenty-eight year old pro. Anyway, Bob was over the moon, and little Jack is immediately shoved into little league.”

“The rest is a very convoluted, very fucked up history which is all-fucking-over google if you wanna spend five minutes snooping.” Holster shrugged. “We all did it.”

Eric nodded, but there was an uncomfortable squirming in his gut at the thought of being able to look up Jack’s dirty secrets on Wikipedia. “Well I guess that makes sense why he’s here.”

“He was drafted, then some shit went down, and he’s already being scouted and he’ll probably end up signing either with the Pirates or the Falcs, but I hear the Aces have their eye on him. Probably Parse’s doing.”

“Kent Parson,” Eric echoed.

They looked at him, eyebrows up. “You’ve never heard of Bad-Fucking-Bob Zimmermann, but you know Kent Parson,” Holster said dryly.

Eric shrugged. “He made out with Lady Gaga after the national anthem two years ago. Of course I’ve heard of him.”

Ransom stared, then leant over and held up a fist. “I knew I was going to like you, Bits. I fucking knew we chose our frog well.”

*** 

Eric returned to the haus full of nervous energy and caffeine, neither of which mixed well with the apprehension of living under the roof with his captain who hated his guts. And with his luck he, of course, passed Jack in the hallway, but Jack didn’t do more than grunt a hello and brush past him. With a breath, Eric hurried into his room and flopped into his computer chair.

He’d had time to set up his webcam and his laptop, and though it had been a while since he’d uploaded a video, he thought maybe it was time. 

It only took a minute to make sure his hair was in place, and he adjusted it so the world could see his tidy bed and Beyonce poster hanging just above it. He stared at the door, saying a little prayer that Johnson wouldn’t come bursting in, then he switched the camera on and offered the internet a smile.

“Hey, y’all. I know it’s been a long time since I’ve done a video, and there’s a reason. At the end of last season, one of the coaches from Samwell University showed up to one of my games, and made me an offer. It was a tough choice, because it was far from home, and a brand new environment. I didn’t know how I’d be able to deal with all these northerners and their disappointing lack of iced tea, but…here we are. Y’all, I’m on the baseball team in Massachusetts!” Eric stopped to take a breath. “I’m livin’ in the frat haus with some of the other guys—all of them are a little…intense, but pretty great. I got the campus tour and let me tell you, I think I’m actually excited to be here. The team seems pretty great, but the captain well…he’s somethin’ else. Let me tell you what he said this morning about my pie…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, Frat parties, Beyonce & Grumpy Jack, Bad Bob's Legacy, and Bitty gets some phone numbers.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've no idea what my update schedule is going to be like for this fic, but I'll try not to leave it too long between chapters.
> 
> This one gets a super special shoutout to wrathofthestag for the amazingly detailed document she put together to help me with all the baseball stuff--and for all the film recs. I'm going to make my way through them (slowly but surely). Thank you, love, I cannot express enough how much that has helped me. I've made a few minor changes to some of SMH regarding their baseball positions to reflect some of the new info I have, but otherwise no major changes were made.
> 
> This chapter sadly has no baseball, but it has a lot of frat houses, drinking, and grumpy Jack. The shower scene comes directly from canon (as we all know and love).

Eric felt his nose wrinkle in spite of his attempt to keep cool—but he couldn’t help it. Whatever Shitty was mixing in that tub looked toxic, a sort of greenish hue, and smelt of possibly actual petrol which was never a good sign. Eric had been to a frat party or two back in Georgia and he knew things got…experimental. And occasionally out of hand. His baseball team wasn’t as tight as this one had been, however, and they certainly hadn’t been this excited to get black-out wasted.

But it seemed the tradition. “This is nothing,” Shitty explained, clapping Eric on the shoulder as he poured some sort of tropical, green-dyed punch from a large tin with holes poked into the top. “This is just the welcome night for all the little early birds hoping to catch a few worms. Everyone on frat row is doing it.”

Eric was aware of that. It was the reason he’d been dragged back to the haus, and all-but bullied into the shower. And it wasn’t like he didn’t want to get a date—or a hook-up, whatever. It was high time he started at least attempting to live with a foot outside the closet he’d carefully constructed for himself, especially when it seemed safe enough. It didn’t stop the anxiety, but he used the nervous energy to put more effort into his outfit, his hair, and then into a bunch of mini-pies he was going to serve as apps for people who stopped by.

Assuming they lasted five minutes with the team who all seemed to appear as if by magic to devour—or if they were Jack, and appeared by magic to glower until Eric caught fire.

All the same, it was dark, and music started pumping from all the houses up and down the street. Someone in the haus threw a playlist on that began thumping heavy with Nicki Minaj which Eric started to move his hips to, in spite of still feeling a little…obvious. But there were people all over now, filling stacks and stacks of red solo cups for beer pong, and cracking boxes of the cheapest, shittiest wine, and filling old, discarded water bottles with the toxic green tub juice to pass round.

“Go easy on Shitty’s shit,” Holster said, slinging his arm round Eric. “He hasn’t actually killed anyone with that shit yet, but since you’re our little frog…”

“I am not a fucking freshman,” Eric snarled.

Holster ignored him. “…we don’t want you to get alcohol poisoning.”

Eric sighed. “Yeah, whatever. It doesn’t exactly look appetising, does it?”

Holster shrugged, then slammed his can of PBR and threw it across the room. It hit a poster which said, ‘Be Better’ in bold letters—apart from some sharpie graffiti in the shape of dicks—and then clattered to the floor. 

“So is this a normal Thursday night for y’all?” Eric asked after some time. “I mean…I just pictured this more of a Friday night thing and…”

“Nah,” Holster said, and hip-checked Bitty gently. “There’s enough MOT on the team we don’t do shit for Shabbat.”

Eric blinked like Holster was speaking a foreign language. “Um.”

“Which reminds me, holy fucking shit. Do you bake like… bread and shit? Because I swear to god I would kill for some challah French toast Saturday mornings. Seriously, I would be in your debt forever.”

Eric shrugged, completely unsure what that was but all the same, he hadn’t met a recipe he couldn’t master. Hated—yes. Cheesecake as possibly the biggest bane of his existence, but it didn’t mean it wasn’t the most buttery, crumbly, delicious cheesecake known to man. “Just get me a recipe, hun, and I’ll see what I can do.”

That answer apparently earnt Bitty a trip round the party on Holster’s shoulders. It should have been absurd and a little insulting, being carried like a child, but Eric was just tipsy enough to enjoy it.

After the trip round, Ransom found them, pushed another crappy beer into Bitty’s hands, then said, “Let’s go raid the drama house. They have bomb as fuck mixed drinks. One of their tech guys is a chem major and he does this crazy shit with their drinks. Molecular gastronomy, bro. It’ll change your life.”

Eric had no real reason to refuse, so he allowed himself to be sandwiched between the two giant men, and carried off down the street.

*** 

The drama house was a little bigger than the baseball one—and definitely had a more Victorian aesthetic to it. It was better maintained, and strangely decorated, but had all the markings of university students with too much time on their hands right before term started. 

There was a massive hookah in the centre of the main room, surrounded by giant poufs, and no shortage of people puffing on the long tubes. Bitty could smell something very fragrant—fruity almost, like cherry, coming out of the smoke. Ransom steered him away, and into a large kitchen where, in less than four minutes, he’d consumed three sort of blobby “drinks” which were filled with juice, vodka, and the third one with something that made him blow out a huge puff of cold smoke at the end.

“Am I fucking right, or am I right?” Ransom said as he sucked down some squared gelatine thing. He shivered, let out a, “hooofuck,” and slammed his fist on the table. “I’m going to be so fucking wasted tonight.”

“Ch’yeah you are.” Holster held up his hand, and Ransom high-fived it.

Eric took a step back away from the table as they continued to survey the goods, and backed up until he collided with something solid, and laughing. He turned, his face pink from both alcohol and embarrassment, and found him staring up into an attractive face. The guy was pretty broad, chiselled features, a large nose, curly brown hair. His dark eyes were rimmed with heavy kohl, and he was wearing a weirdly tailored suit and had a top-hat tucked under his arm.

“Uh,” Eric said.

The guy laughed, shifting the hat behind his back. “If I told you I didn’t dress or act like this under normal circumstances, would you believe me?” Eric was momentarily distracted by his accent, which sounded familiar, but he couldn’t put his finger on it.

It took him a moment to remember he was supposed to answer questions when asked them directly. “Oh. Hah. I mean, maybe not? This is the drama house after all, and I remember all y’all from school.”

The guy laughed, leaning into Eric’s space. “Do you?”

Eric shrugged, flushing. He turned his head only when he heard Ransom and Holster furiously whispering to each other and smacking each other on the arms. Ransom gave him a thumb’s up, then they carefully started backing away.

“Your friends?” the guy asked.

“Teammates,” Eric said, groaning. “Morons. I mean, lovable, wonderful morons, but…”

“Justin and Adam,” the guy said, and when Eric looked surprised, he shrugged. “I had a bio class with them last year and it was…interesting. Good guys.”

Eric nodded. “I’m uh…Eric, by the way. Eric Bittle?” He extended his hand, then held his breath for a second out of fear he was going to get laughed at or rejected.

But the guy only took a second to take it—after swiping his own hand on the side of his jeans. His palm was warm, and not too sweaty in spite of the claustrophobic heat from all the student bodies, and it squeezed tight. “Finley Edwards. It’s nice to meet you, Eric Bittle.”

“The uh…the team calls me Bitty, apparently. Just so um…so if you hear that…” He flushed. “It’s not because of my size.”

“Wouldn’t have thought it.” Finley winked. “You can call me Fin, the rest of these shitheads do, but I’m not really bothered either way so…” He trailed off with a shrug.

Eric realised they were still holding hands, and very carefully pulled his away. He reached out blindly, searching for one of the strange drinks, and Finley laughed, going round him and grabbing two very bright orange spheres.

“Here. It’ll get you pissed good and proper.”

Eric knew he should probably ask what was in it, but he was already near drunk from the stuff Ransom and Holster had given him before, and he was feeling extra…friendly, in a way. He popped the sphere into his mouth and laughed when it popped, sending a rush of an almost mango flavour down his throat.

He caught himself staring right at Finley’s smiling eyes, and he had a feeling his night was going to get…very interesting.

*** 

Eric woke up in his bed, face-down on his pillow, boiling hot from a stream of sun coming through the open curtains. It was midday, by the look, though Eric’s entire body was begging for at least twenty-four hours of more rest. Or possibly another week.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he attempted to remember what had happened after he, Ransom, and Holster had left the haus to wander. He recalled the drama frat—the strange hookah, and the weird drinks. Then he remembered the cute boy with nice eyes who’d given him something very fruity.

And…

If he was remembering right, a few more things that were fruity. Then there had been hands on his hips, and really weird music playing—like Enya. Interpretive dancing? 

“Oh, hell,” Eric groaned into his pillow. Trying to recall anything was just making his head hurt. And as nice as staying in bed and sleeping until he felt like a real boy once more instead of the wooden puppet this drinks had turned him into sounded, he knew that wasn’t an option. He had to verify all of his classes, and see if there were any clubs or organisations he wanted to join.

He had promised himself he’d join at least one LGBT+ club this year, and he didn’t want to miss any of the chances to see what was out there. Fresher week only came once a year, and while Baseball was going to take up a lot of his time, he wanted to embrace who he was. It was time to stop being the sole, lonely gay boy in a group of frat bros who never talked about anything except girls.

With a sigh, Eric pushed out of his bed, grimacing at the smell coming out of his skin, like he was literally sweating out all the old alcohol from his pores. He fumbled into his half-unpacked wardrobe, found a decent pair of shorts and t-shirt with Samwell Baseball printed across the front, found a clean enough towel, and shuffled into the bathroom.

He was grateful none of the haus seemed to be up yet, and he set his phone on the back of the toilet, shuffling his playlist to his Beyonce Morning Wake-Up, and hit play. The water came out hot, and as he began to slough off the night before, he began to wake up.

“…can see your halo, halo, halooooo,” he sang along.

He lathered the thick, creamy lush soap he’d scored right before heading up to Samwell, and began to rub the loofah across his skin. His eyes closed, and he let his temple fall against the tiles that were still cool. “…I ain’t never gonna shut you out…”

His high note ended on a yelp when the shower curtain was unceremoniously ripped to the side, and he was staring into Jack Zimmermann’s angry face. His eyes were red, dark, his free hand curled into a fist at his side.

The panic only lasted a second, and then Eric became immediately indignant. “I…am…showering!”

“It’s eight in the morning, Bittle,” Jack hissed, then a long stream of French, the tone making it obvious none of them were polite phrases.

“Jack Laurent, will you let me bathe…”

“Stop singing Justin Beiber or whatever…”

Eric felt his heart race, and he cupped water into his hands, splashing it at Jack while shouting, “Don’t you dare blaspheme in my shower…”

“Stop splashing me with water!” Jack yelled back, then slammed the curtain back and stormed out.

Shaking with fury, Eric hurried through the rest of his shower, grabbing his towel and stomping back into his room. He had just pulled up his boxers when the door opened, and he let out a yelp when Johnson wandered in, his face scruffy, eyes sleepy and half-lidded.

“Lord have mercy, you nearly gave me a heart attack.” Eric gave his sternum a perfunctory pat, and smiled to let Johnson know he was not serious.

“Jack giving you a hard time?” Johnson said as he flopped onto his bed.

Eric shrugged and eased into his shorts, then pulled his shirt over his head. “Reckon he’s like that with everyone.”

Johnson made a considering humming noise, then said, “There are a few AUs where things are good from the start. The classic bakery, you know, heart eyes being made over the counter, flirting. Sometimes you don’t have to work as hard for the endgame. But you’ll get there. Enemies to lovers trope is far more satisfying when you have true character growth. Canon gives it to us. This AU is trying to follow that.”

“Uh.” Eric blinked at him, then realised Johnson had probably come from Shitty’s room. He’d heard the same random stoned ramblings from plenty of dormmates back in Georgia. “Thanks, Johnson. Anyway I gotta head down to the quad, but I’ll see you later?”

“Entirely likely, Bits. My narrative isn’t done just yet.” He winked just before Eric shut the door and headed out.

*** 

Eric enjoyed the time to himself that afternoon. He made Annie’s his first stop, ordering the largest white mocha they had on the menu, then went down to the massive spread of tables, banners, and tents. It had been a long time since he bothered with this—even in his freshman year he’d been too afraid to set foot outside the carefully constructed boundaries he’d given himself, but here was different.

There weren’t any of his daddy’s boys looking over his shoulder, waiting to report back on his son’s homosexual activities. Eric wasn’t even entirely sure his parents would care that he was gay—or at the very least he was pretty sure they had some idea. The boys on Coach’s team hadn’t exactly been quiet about what they thought of Eric Bittle. But his parents operated under a very careful Don’t Ask Don’t Tell policy which Eric wasn’t sure he cared to live with anymore.

Though even at his age, with proof behind him he was a good athlete and an okay student, the idea of coming out _out_ was still as terrifying as some quarterback in high school finding him necking one of the marching band under the bleachers.

So.

It as a delicate balance, really.

Within an hour, the morning was getting warm—a little muggy from a late-season storm a few days prior. He was glad for the shorts, even if his pockets were a little too full with informational pamphlets, bookmarks he was never going to use, and a couple of buttons he figured would probably get lost before he even made it back to the haus.

But he found the table he’d been looking for. There was a painted mural on thin paper erected with every LGBT+ flag, a small iPod dock blaring out some sort of pop music Eric didn’t recognise, and what shouldn’t be surprising at all, was the sight of Shitty—shirtless, wearing very short shorts in the ace flag colours.

He had on his aviators, his stache combed to perfection, and was shaking his hips to the beat of the music. When he saw Eric, he threw his arms out and shouted, “Incoming!”

Eric had only a second to brace himself, and his coffee, before Shitty was hauling him into a spinning hug. 

“Fuck yeah, Bits. I was hoping I’d see you today. I mean, I was gonna ask you about it later anyway, but we throw some fucking killer parties through the year, and pride…” Shitty swiped a finger under his left eye. “It’s a thing of beauty, Bits. Beauty.”

“Ah, uh,” Eric said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean yeah. I didn’t get to, you know, back in Georgia so…”

“Put this cute lil fucker’s name down,” Shitty said, pointing to a girl behind the table.

She rolled her eyes, but wrote the name as Shitty spelt it out, and then went back to talking to another girl who was leaning into her space with a wide grin.

Shitty grinned and threw his arm round Eric’s waist. “So. How was your first night as an official Wellie?”

Eric shrugged. “Um. It was okay. I think I drank too much—didn’t do anything I regret. I hope. Met a cute boy though at the drama house who…”

“Finley,” Shitty said, nodding sagely. “He was here earlier asking if you’d turned up. Told me to give you this. He said Holster had to carry you home before he could get your digits.”

Eric stared down at the paper with the neat block lettering spelling out Finley’s name, and his number. He took it, then shoved it into his pocket. “Thanks. Um…how was your night?”

“Ah, not bad, not bad my dude. Jack came down and had his bitch-fit round midnight, chased everyone out. But it was pretty good. Just wait til Lards gets back.”

“Lards,” Eric repeated.

“Team manager, fucking beast, beer pong champ, all around greatest human being that ever lived. Lardo runs the team. Even Jack chills out round them. Plus they can literally drink the entire football team under the table and for that, they’re a national treasure.”

Eric couldn’t help a laugh. “So I guess it’s not just me Jack hates.”

Shitty blew out a puff of air. “Look, Bits. You need to understand he’s…”

“I heard about the whole Bad Bob thing. Or well…whatever Holster and Ransom wanted to share.” Eric shrugged. “It’s…fine. He doesn’t have to like me.”

“Jack’s kind of a purist. It happens in Baseball, you know? People don’t really become fans, they’re born into it. It’s…” Shitty shrugged and leant against the table, crossing his feet at the ankles. “When you have a reputation like Bob Zimmermann to live up to, it’s gonna fuck a guy up, you know? And the worst part is, Bob doesn’t give a shit whether or not Jack’s any good, but Jack has a hard time seeing past that. His entire life has somehow revolved round this game, and Bob’s the centre of it. Objectively, Jack loves his dad, but…with all that shit…”

“I get it,” Eric said. “Trust me, I get it. The whole…dad and expectations and knowing no matter what you do it’s never going to be what he wants or…or what you think he wants. And every time you try and ask it’s…” Eric cleared his throat. “Anyway, I get it. I don’t get the whole pitcher thing but…”

“Ah. That’s…more complicated. Probably best not to discuss shit like that here. He’ll warm up, okay? He’s a good guy, Jackabelle. He and I are ride or die, and we have been since freshman year. He cares about the team, it’ll show once we get going.”

Eric nodded, then offered Shitty a smile. “Thanks. That…actually helped.” And he was slightly surprised he meant it.

*** 

Eric spent most of the day on campus—meeting with his advisor, then wandering through the buildings to find each of his classes for the coming Monday. He had lunch at a place called Jerry’s, waved at a few of the frogs on the team who looked like they were doing the same thing, then went and sat by the lake for a while and relaxed.

It was late afternoon when he wandered back, and he walked into the haus to find Holster throwing the cushions of two of the sofas in the air, frantically searching for something.

“Honey, what are you doing?” Eric asked, leaning against the wall.

Holster turned back. “I need my lucky tie pin. It’s…way too long to explain, but I fucking let Ransom use it for five seconds and now it’s gone and…”

“Got it!” came Ransom’s shout. He came down the stairs dressed in trousers, a button up shirt, freshly showered and smelling nice. He ruffled Eric’s hair as he passed by him, tossing the tie pin to Holster who quickly pinned it to his forest green tie.

Eric opened his mouth to ask what they were dressed up for when suddenly Jack appeared at the top of the stairs, looking unfairly attractive in his coal coloured trousers and shirt so blue it made his eyes almost pale. His hair was combed pristinely, and he smelt, if possible, even better than Ransom.

His eyes flickered over Eric’s form, then he huffed and brushed past him. “Hurry up. We’re going to be late and I’m not getting bad seats because the two of you can’t get your shit together for five minutes.”

Holster rolled his eyes as Jack stormed out of the room. “I’d say he’ll chill out, but…he probably won’t.”

“Where uh…where y’all headed?” Eric asked as Holster reached for what looked like a folded up bit of fabric that was sat on the back of the tv. His eyes widened as he watched Holster unfold it, and he recognised it immediately.

“Normally we go Saturday mornings,” Holster said, ducking his head so Ransom could help him affix the kippah. “But the first Shabbat of the year we always do Friday night services,” Holster said. “Oh!” He shoved Ransom away, then dug into his other pocket and shoved a bit of paper at Eric before grabbing him by the collar. “I swear to god I will dedicate my entire life to you if you can make this. Rans and I went to Murder Stop’n Shop and got everything you should need. And youtube probably has like a hundred tutorials.”

Eric gave Holster’s arm a pat. “I’ve got your back, hon,” he said, then peered at the paper. It was a recipe for some type of braided bread, which shouldn’t be any trouble at all. “It’ll give me somethin’ to do.”

Holster kissed his cheek. “I fucking love you. Anyway we’d better go before Jack has a rage stroke.” He backed up, then fumbled for his shoes, and shoved Ransom toward the door.

Minutes later, the three of them were walking down the pavement, and Eric was alone in the kitchen. With a sigh, he glanced at the counter where a bag of flour, pot of honey, and packets of yeast sat. Swiping his hands on his jeans, he figured he’d might as well get to work.

*** 

When the dough was proving, Eric sat at the counter, his legs swinging on the too-tall barstool, and he had his phone in his hands. On the screen, Finley’s number was typed in the contact, and half a message was composed in the outgoing message block.

**Hey, it’s Eric Bittle, from the party. I think I should probably be embarrassed about what happened, but I guess it wasn’t too bad if you sent me your number through Shitty. I was wondering…**

Eric sighed at the phone, then at himself, then at the Universe.

**…do you want to get…  
…maybe we could…  
…I was thinking we might…**

He let his head fall forward on the counter.

“Hey, Bitty?”

Eric’s head snapped up to see Chris Chow peering hesitantly round the doorway to the kitchen. When Eric smiled, Chris stepped into the kitchen, one hand shoved into the pocket of his jeans. 

“You okay?”

Eric groaned, letting his phone fall onto the counter with a too-loud clatter. “Oh just…boy trouble.”

Chris nodded sympathetically. “I thought college was going to be more like the movies. Which I guess that party kind of was? But I woke up feeling like I wanted to die, and I’m not sure how I’m going to live like that and play baseball.”

Eric couldn’t help his snort of laughter. “I guess it all comes down to figuring out moderation, right?”

Chris smiled. “Yeah. My brother warned me. I should have listened. Maybe I should have started drinking younger, built up a tolerance.”

Eric laughed. “Lord, that’s one way to handle it. I think you’ll be alright though, hon. Did you…did you need something? Are you hungry?”

“Oh I…” Chris’ eyes flickered over the floured counter. “Are you baking?”

“Some bread Holster asked for,” Eric said absently. “But I could really go for a nice grilled cheese. How about I make us some?”

Chris’ face softened with a grin. “If you don’t mind…”

“It’ll help keep my mind off this mess I got myself into. Maybe I should’ve done like you said. Spent more time texting cute boys so I could build up my humiliation tolerance.”

“Oh,” Chris said, frowning. “Can I help?”

Eric sighed, then hopped off the stool and got to work pulling bread, butter, and cheeses from the fridge. “You know, I don’t think so. This is something I’ll have to figure out on my own. But I sure wouldn’t mind a distraction. How do you feel about Chopped kids?”

Chris’ eyes widened. “I mean, apart from the fact that how the hell do these kids know how to cook better than I can play ball?”

Eric laughed, and clapped Chris on the shoulder. “Exactly. Come on, let’s eat our feelings in cheesy bread, and feel inferior to a bunch of eight year olds.”

*** 

Compared to the photos online, the challah looked about right, but it was done well before the others got home. Eric half considered staying up, but wandered to his room instead. Johnson was missing—again, so Eric put his headphones on and curled up in his bed.

The message was still half-composed, and everything he could think of made him sound like an idiot. But he wanted to be brave. He didn’t even know if he wanted to date someone like Finley—he’d been too drunk to really have any clue what he was like, but he remembered liking him well enough at the party.

And maybe it was time to be brave.

Straight people had bad dates—made stupid relationship mistakes all the time. He was owed a few. He was owed some awkward conversation, and bad kissing, and personality clashes. He wasn’t going to lose his gay card because he couldn’t find forever with the first guy who smiled at him.

He took a breath, then grabbed his phone to finish the text.

**…I know Monday’s the first day of lecture, but would you want to grab dinner or coffee or something where we aren’t completely wasted?**

He hit send, and flopped back onto his pillow. One hand covered his face, and he breathed through his anxiety. A minute later, his phone buzzed, and it was by miracle alone he didn’t fling it across the room and against the wall.

He bit his lip as he swiped the screen open, and he felt a smile threaten to crack his face in half as he read the reply.

_No worries, cariad, I thought you were really cute. Coffee sounds great. I don’t have much on Friday. Want to see me then?_

Eric felt his heart beating fast and furious against his ribs as he scrambled to text back. **I absolutely want to see you then.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the amazing comments. I'll try to get to them asap.
> 
> Up next, Bitty experiences Jack and Holster's shabbat afternoon board game rivalry (Jack's CRUEL SHEEP EMPIRE!), and the first optional (mandatory) Samwell Baseball Team practise.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge HUGE thank you to wrathofthestag for the huge baseball document she meticulously wrote out for me, which really really helped in this chapter. Also to the film recs which I watched as I wrote this. This is yet unbeta'd because I'm both impatient and have a mountain of research to finish between tonight and tomorrow, but if there's any baseball mistakes, I will go back and make changes if necessary.
> 
> Another special thank you to prongsquake. You know why. You know why ILY so much lol. x

Bitty sat in his chair, spinning idly from side to side, catching his foot on the edge of his desk as he stared at the notification light on his phone. Blink. Blink. Blink. Something so innocuous should not be causing him this much stress. And yet…

_“…the way we play this game, Jacques! And you know it! This is cheating, this is bullshit, this is…”_

**Crash**.

The first and real reason Eric hadn’t ventured out of his room since breakfast was apparently the hostile environment that Shabbat afternoon caused. Shabbat, which apparently Holster, Jack, and Ransom all followed until the season began and things like classes and games made it impossible.

But when they could, Shitty explained, they would spend the afternoon mostly playing board games, which always ended like this. Always. “It seems to defeat the fuckin’ purpose of them having a peaceful afternoon,” he’d explained the first time Holster had stormed away, “but…it is what it is. I’m not here to judge. I’m just here to you know, supply weed brownies whenever things get too much.”

Eric blinked at him. “Are they…allowed to have weed brownies today?”

Shitty snorted. “My dude, not for them, for us. We need it to put up with…” He went quiet as Holster stormed past, muttering something about Jack’s cruel sheep army.

After that, Eric had locked himself in his room, now finding Johnson’s strange sort of musky weed and cologne scent almost comforting. And the fact that although he left some sort of impression that he existed—mostly in the form of vinyl records and a slightly mussed, non-descript comforter—he was also never there like…ever.

Eric had seen him exactly once that day where he just pat him on the arm and said, “It’s not really relevant to the plot, and there’s only one scene I really make an impact later. And that’s not coming for another like three chapters.”

Eric attributed it to stoned-speak, and just nodded before claiming the place as his own. He’d half a mind to film a video, but with the racket downstairs, it just wasn’t worth it.

*** 

He ventured down round lunchtime, fixing up sandwiches for everyone, then scurried away when Holster and Jack started glaring at each other _again_. He bumped into Ransom in the hall, who quickly caught him by his shoulders and steadied him before he toppled back down the stairs.

“Yo, Bits. You okay?” he asked.

Eric’s eyes cut toward the top of the stairs, then he sighed. “Is it always like this with them?”

Ransom snorted. “Pretty much, yeah. Those two just…do not get along. I mean, they play well together, even if Jack is always bitching about Holster being a lefty. He hates it, but he also knows that southpaws are the fucking unicorns and we need at least one. So he takes it out on him you know…in other ways.”

“Like downstairs right now?” Bitty asked.

“Or during scrimmages. You’ll see. It’s…interesting. Anyway, Shabbat’s over at sunset and after those two get their heads out of their asses, Jack will lock himself in his room like usual, and Holtzy will get schwasty like usual, and Saturday night will commence.”

“That sounds…ominous,” Eric said.

Ransom grinned. “Party, bro. Party fuckin’ party. Trust me, we’ve got a few spots lined up for tonight.”

“Isn’t tomorrow like…our first practise?” Eric asked with a frown.

“It is indeed, and it’s your duty to show up at least partially hungover. It’s not first practise if someone doesn’t vom on the field. Anyway, I’d better get down there before…”

_“No, fuck you, dickface!”_

Ransom sighed. “…before any more of that. Find me later, we’ll all head down to the football house later. They’re doing some disco shit. Should be fun.”

Eric nodded, and then headed into his room, which was where he sat now, staring at his phone which was mocking him. Rudely. Because on the screen sat a text from a certain person he wasn’t sure he was ready to see again.

He did like Finley. He was the tall, dark, and handsome sort of guy with a cute accent. A lot like a certain captain in the haus, minus the whole giant asshole, and also hated Eric’s guts part, which really was a point in Fin’s favour. But Eric was also just getting settled, so he wasn’t sure he was ready to make this a two nights in a row sort of thing.

The text itself was casual.

**Hey, so I’m going to be at at least one of the parties tonight. Feel like meeting up?**

It would be easy enough to say yes, and easy enough to say no. Eric had obligations to bond with his team—not that any of them would mind, he figured, if he did want to meet up with Fin. But he wanted to do this right, and he was over-thinking it, which was always his biggest problem.

He sighed at his bun, who was looking at him with a head-tilt of non-judgement. “I don’t know,” he muttered to his longest friend. “Maybe I should just stay in.” Bun continued to stare, and Eric sighed. “Don’t give me that look. I’m not going to be a wallflower all year. Maybe just…right now.”

Bun said nothing, button eyes shining in the last of the day’s sunlight.

“You’re right,” Eric said after a moment. “I should just see how it all plays out.”

He went with: _The guys and I are heading to a few parties. I’m not sure what the plans are so maybe I’ll see you around?_

Fin’s reply took only seconds. **I sure hope so. Miss your cute face.**

Eric flopped from his chair to his bed, landing face-first, and sighed into his pillow. It was unfair, the way something so small could make his heart beat so hard. Maybe he was taking this too seriously. Maybe it was okay to just…let himself have some fun. And if that fun was with a cute Welsh boy with a great smile well…there were worse ways to sow your wild college oats.

*** 

“It’s mother-fucking-time,” came Shitty’s voice as he slapped his hand on the wall next to Eric’s room. “Bits. You had better be dressed and ready.”

He was. He’d spent the last two hours going through every single piece of clothing he had in his wardrobe. He’d guessed, second-guessed, even third-guessed himself until finally he slipped into a nice pair of jeans and a button-up shirt and told himself everyone was going to be too drunk to really see what he had on anyway.

That didn’t stop him from spending an additional forty minutes on his hair, but by the time Shitty came to the door, he was as preened and put-together as he was going to be. And it seemed like the guys were determined to make sure that everyone was slowly and meticulously taken apart by the end of the night so…what did it matter.

“Hot _damn_ Bitty-Bits,” Shitty said, giving Eric a once-over. “You’re gonna be beating them off with a stick tonight.”

Eric flushed, checking his hair once more as Shitty led the way down the stairs. The bottom floor of the haus was full of teammates—even ones who lived outside the haus. The other frogs were there, looking nervous but excited, and several of the upper classmen which Eric had met during team orientation, but had never really been introduced to.

Ransom and Holster were there, whispering furiously to each other in the corner of the room. And then, to Eric’s huge surprise, there was Jack. Who looked…ready to go out. And actually have a good time. As much as Eric couldn’t stand his captain, he couldn’t help himself from appreciating how _good_ Jack looked. He was in jeans and a tight t-shirt that showed every curve of every carefully cultivated muscle. He still had the boy-band hair going, but it worked for him, and the tension in his jaw just made his cheekbones stand out more, just barely eclipsing the sleepy blues of his eyes.

Eric forced himself to drag his eyes away, and soon enough they were all tromping out the door and into the night.

*** 

If Eric had thought for even a second he’d find himself the outlier of the group, Ransom and Holster dissuaded him from that notion within minutes. The football house was bigger, and less dilapidated than their own haus, and their party budget was clearly larger than what Eric had seen in prep for their own opening Kegster which was set for Sunday night. There were lights everywhere, several disco balls, music blaring from speakers he couldn’t even see, and the drinks flowed freely and strong.

By midnight, he was schwasted, as Ransom kept calling it, and the only thing he really recalled was having his phone taken away, and riding on Holster’s back back to the haus. The night was probably less epic than he felt, but as he tumbled into his bed in his still-empty room, he drifted into his drunken sleep with a huge smile on his face.

*** 

Hell.

Eric was in hell. He was certain of it. Every bone in his body felt like it had shattered into a million pieces, and had been cobbled back together like a four year old playing with lego. The faint light from the closed curtains felt like nails being driven into his temples, and when he shifted onto his side, his stomach gave a violent lurch like it was trying to crawl out of his throat.

This was…bad. This was very bad.

His battered mind vaguely recalled that this morning he had practise. His first practise with the team, and it was going to be the moment that Jack—the man who hated him most—would see his skill on the mound.

Yeah.

It did not bode well.

It wasn’t Eric’s first hangover, but it was certainly one of the worst. He was dizzy as he pushed himself to a stand, and managed to stumble into the blessedly empty bathroom. Hot water did a little to slough off some of the alcohol sweat he’d broken into after falling into bed, and he felt vaguely more human after drying off and slipping into his morning work-out clothes.

Practise was going to be at noon, so it was enough time to stumble down the street for some caffeine—and if he could manage it, a run to get the rest of the crap out of his system.

Eric made it into the living room, and was heading for the door when he caught sight of two bodies curled on the green sofa. Chowder and Nursey, he was pretty sure, though it was hard to tell under the pile of hoodies covering them.

He turned to go, and a hand fell on his shoulder which made him jump, heart hammering in his chest as he saw Holster looming over him. “Whaddup, Bitty-Bits. You alive?”

“I’m not sure,” Eric admitted. “If I am dead, this is definitely hell.”

Holster snorted. “No worries, my dude. We have it covered. Brunch at Jerry’s.”

Shitty appeared then, as if by magic, his grin stretched out under his stache. “Mother fucking brunch. Let me find my shoes.” 

Soon enough, the three of them were trudging down the nearly silent street, toward the centre of campus. “Where’s Ransom?” Eric asked suddenly, realising who they were missing.

Holster rolled his eyes. “Yeah, he’s basically dead, and he’ll stay that way until about fifteen minutes before we have to be at the field. Don’t worry, bro. He’ll show up.”

Eric shrugged, not wanting to say he wasn’t worried, just curious, and honestly apart from food and a good work out, he was also craving space. He’d lived in dorms before, but he’d never been in a place where the team was so involved before. Now he was sharing not just a room, but an entire haus with people. And they meant well, they did, but it was a lot to adjust to.

The craving for caffeine and food quickly overwhelmed his desire to be alone, and as they approached Jerry’s, the smell of coffee and bacon overwhelmed his senses. He was halfway to drooling by the time they got inside, and Holster crowed a laugh as he snagged a mostly-dirty table, slapping his wallet on the edge and shouting, “Dibs!” at the top of his lungs.

A few groups standing nearby groaned, but all that really happened was a harried looking busser came and swept the dirty dishes into a black bin, gave the table a cursory wipe down with a dodgy-looking bar towel, and then ambled off. The dubious nature of the whole thing wasn’t enough to turn Eric off as he slid onto the slightly tacky, vinyl seat, and grabbed the little menu which was wedged between the salt and pepper shakers.

His eyes were still blurry from the hang-over, but they widened when he saw the fare. “Whoopee pies. Really?”

“So fucking good,” Holster said as he made grabby hands for a coffee mug and pot of coffee a server passing by plonked on the edge of their table.

Soon enough, they were sipping the amazing brew—better coffee than Eric’d had in a long time. He felt it was probably blasphemous to say it, but it was even better than Annie’s.

When they ordered food—most of them going for the greasy fried potatoes, eggs, and toast, though Holster got a side of waffles and Eric got the whoopee pies—it arrived faster than Eric thought possible. And he’d been right, the food had taken the edge off things, and now the idea of spending most of his day standing in the tail end of summer sun on the pitcher’s mound didn’t sound so terrible.

“Okay y’all,” Eric said after he was sufficiently fed. “This whole practise this afternoon…”

Both Shitty and Holster groaned. “Dude, do you have to?” Holster moaned.

Shitty shook his head. “We don’t like to mention it. It’s like Voldemort, you know? You say it loud enough and Jack appears with his grumpy Canadian face on demanding that you do a hundred suicides for fucking off the night before practise.”

Eric blinked. “But…he went out with us? You’re telling me he’s not in the same hell we are?”

“Jackabelle doesn’t drink,” Shitty said. “I think he just went out because his girl was asking.”

His girl. For whatever reason, an uncomfortable squirm settled in Eric’s gut at the thought, though he didn’t know why. Maybe it was because Jack was such a hard-ass, it was hard to imagine him being soft enough to love someone. Which, Eric knew, just came from the fact that he didn’t really _know_ Jack the way the others did.

“Anyway, he hates when we get schwasted before practises, which is like…literally all the time because it’s fucking college,” Holster said, rolling his eyes.

After the long, rather tense Shabbat weekend Eric had been subjected to, it was no surprise to hear Holster’s attitude about Jack. And it occurred to Eric that there was a good chance he and Jack would never get along, considering Holster and Jack had been playing together nearly their entire college career and they were no closer to being friends.

Unless it had been worse and well…Eric didn’t really didn’t want to think about Jack being _worse_.

“So basically assume we’re going to get reamed. Verbally,” Eric added.

“Something like that. Don’t let it get to you, okay?” Shitty said. “Seriously, he’s just…like that. He’s a good guy though.”

Holster snorted something that sounded vaguely like, _bullshit_ , but Shitty didn’t acknowledge him.

“He’s got a lot on his plate for what’s happening now, and for his future, and he’s got a lot of shit to try and slough off from his past. And yeah, he’s got his _thing_ about pitchers, but he’ll come round to what a fucking tiny little delight you are, Bits. Especially when you start winning us games.”

“So no pressure, then,” Eric said with a wry grin.

“Boy, what the fuck kind of team have you been on, no pressure,” Holster all-but shouted. “This is fucking baseball, Bits. That’s all there is, is pressure. These fuckers are going to hit home runs, but it’s up to us to keep the other team from being able to do the same. It’s all on us, Bits. It’s allllll fucking on us.”

Eric wanted to sink into his booth and never come out. And it wasn’t that he was unaware of it. This wasn’t his first collegiate team, but it was the first time the captain looked at him like he wanted to set him on fire for just existing. And it was the first time Eric’s ability to get along with someone rode solely on his ability to pitch no-hitters.

And well that…

That was kind of a lot.

*** 

Eric breathed, swiped the sweat off his brow, then pitched the ball to Chow who was crouched low and waiting for his own turn. It was batting practise currently, and Eric was still going through warm-ups. Holster was on the mound for a little while, but he’d been called away by Murray, which left Dex taking his place.

Jack hadn’t gone up to bat yet, letting the frogs get their fill. And they weren’t half bad, Eric noticed as he took a break to stretch his arm. He dug his toe into the dirt for a second, flexing and relaxing his thighs, trying to will the blood down into his fingers to keep them limber and soft.

He was a good pitcher—he knew that much. He’d only been good at a handful of things in his life—a few that he hated, a few that he loved. Baseball had been something he hadn’t ever considered, but he was getting to know the game now that he was in it so deeply, and he was starting to recognise things that were important.

Like the way the team actually worked together seamlessly, in a way Georgia hadn’t. Even Jack, who was very obviously not happy about most of the team being hung-over enough to vomit on home plate, though they were keeping it in. Barely.

Ransom was still in the dugout, his hat pulled down over his eyes, and Eric couldn’t tell if he was sleeping, dead, or nearly dead. But he still seemed aware of what was happening, and held out his hand for a fist-bump when Shitty came down to find his lucky helmet after getting a few hits on Holster.

Stretching his back, Eric threw a few more pitches at Chow, working on his curve, until Chow was called to replace Johnson who’d been called away by Hall. Jack stood there a minute, glancing between both Eric and Chad, both of whom were warmed up nicely, and then he barked, “Bale. On the mound!”

Chad smirked at Eric. “I’m about’a show you how it’s fucking done up in here, bitches.”

Eric frowned at the way Chad was puffing up his chest and muttering to himself, and swinging his arms back and forth. He looked annoyed and agitated.

“What crawled up his ass?” Holster asked, coming to lean next to Eric.

Ransom, who was just behind him, a bat between his hands, snorted a laugh. “Fucker got kicked out of the football house last night. He started getting all fucking weird, screaming at everyone, and half the team literally hauled him up by the back of his shirt and tossed him on the lawn. He and Jack went at it after that. Jack got all up in his grill and started telling him if he was going to act like a fucking toddler, to go back to nursery.”

“Brutal,” Holster said. “But maybe necessary. What the fuck is this guy doing?”

Eric glanced over to see Chad immediately strike Nursey out. Nursey threw his helmet and looked decidedly less chill than he normally was. “This is fucking batting practise, dickhead!”

Chad shrugged, rocking his shoulders back and forth. “This is how we do when I’m on the mound, bitches! You don’t like it, go home and cry to your mommas!”

Eric’s eyes flickered to Jack who looked murderous. He brushed past Eric, Holster, and Ransom muttering, “Okay time for me to shut this guy up.”

Holster reached out and grabbed Bitty’s arm. “Oh shit. And this is going to be the moment you understand why we all tolerate Jack’s asshole attitude.”

Eric held his breath as he watched Jack pass Nursey who gave him a pat. Jack whirled on him. “Don’t fucking wipe your strike out on me, Nurse!”

Nursey flipped him off as he went into the dugout, collapsing on the bench, arms crossed, eyes narrowed as he stared between Chad and Jack.

Jack spit on his hands, then grabbed his bat and looked back at Chow, then at Chad. “Let’s do this, asshole!”

Chad looked more puffed up than usual, pacing over the mound a bit. “I’m a fucking professional, Zimmermann. You’re not the only one drafted here and you fucking _know it_!”

“Shut the fuck up and throw the fucking ball, Bale.”

He did. Chad threw a fastball, which very nearly hit Jack. He jumped back, and his eyes went more narrow, his jaw more set, more angry. “This is fucking batting practise, Bale! Do you understand what that means? We’re going to scrimmage in half an hour. The batters need to hit the fucking ball!”

“This is how I do, Zimms.”

At the sound of the name, Holster sucked in his breath and muttered, “Oh. Fuck.”

If looks could kill, Chad would have been nothing but ash. Apart from the wavering bat, Jack’s body was stone still, his eyes fixed on Chad.

There was a tense moment, the air so thick Eric was half sure he could cut through with a knife. Then Chad threw the ball, and the crack of Jack’s bat hitting it sounded like a gunshot. Jack threw his bat as he began a slow jog, because he didn’t need to rush. Not when it was sailing over the wall.

A home run.

Chad was kicking the dirt, cursing, threatening, and after Jack’s foot met home plate, he jogged up to the mound and shoved his finger into Chad’s chest. “Get your fucking shit together, Bale. We are a team, and when it’s batting practise, you let the fucking batters hit the fucking ball. If you can’t do that, I’ll have you thrown off the team.”

Chad took a step in toward Jack. “You don’t have that kind of power, Zimmermann. It doesn’t matter whose dick you sucked, or whose kid you are. Daddy might have been able to buy your junkie ass onto the team but…”

Chad didn’t have a chance to finish his sentence, and it wasn’t Jack that went after him, but everyone else. Literally everyone. Shitty was the first to reach Chad, with a swinging fist, and Ransom was second. Holster third, which surprised Eric since Holster and Jack were always at odds.

Then the frogs got involved, and just before Eric decided that in spite of his raging fear of ever being hit, he should jump in, it broke up. Rans and Holster had Chad by the arms. He was spitting mad, literally, and cursing as they dragged him off.

Jack had a smudge of dirt on his cheek, and a lip that looked like it might be a little fat come morning. His hair was in disarray, and he looked furious, but determined as he rounded on Eric.

Eric felt his heart speed up in his chest.

“Bittle,” he barked. “You warm?”

“I…uh. Yeah. Yeah, I’m good.”

Jack nodded, stoic and intense. “Scrimmage. Now. You’re starting. Get your ass on the mound, show me what you got.”

Eric pushed aside every single question he had about what the hell just happened, and he jogged over, determined to show Jack what he had.

And he would have. Truly. As intimidated as he was when he realised the first up to bat was actually going to _be_ Jack, he knew he could do this. He clutched the ball on his hand, resting at the small of his back. He breathed, looked at Chow, looked at Jack. His eyes closed a minute, then he opened them. He felt the tension in his arm as he prepared to give Jack everything he had.

He felt the ball leave his hand, a perfect throw, though he could see instantly that it was going to make contact with Jack’s bat. Eric was good. Jack was better.

And it would have been fine, really. Only Eric saw the ball coming right for him. And instead of doing what any other pitcher would do—and catch the fucking ball—Eric’s vision went white, and the next thing he knew, he was on the ground.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry to leave this cliffhanger. It's basically Bitty's fainting goat moment like he has in canon since I'm following a sort-of canon timeline. I'm going to do my best to update the next chapter a little quicker. x


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise. Another update! The rest of my lectures start this week so I've no idea when I'll have time to dedicate to writing, so I figured I'd bang this out as the last of my long holiday weekend before it's back to the grind.
> 
> This chapter is also not beta- read, so if you find any glaring baseball mistakes, please feel free to let me know <3

“…could make a play out of this.”

“Shut the fuck up, Holtzy. Look at him. He looks like a dead fish.”

The voices sounded like they were speaking through thick glass, and there was a faint ringing in his ears as Eric slowly blinked. He was curled up, knees near his chest, hands in tight fists, and every muscle in his body ached like he’d been tensing for hours. He blinked at a small pile of sunflower seed shells a few feet away, and dusty cleats in his eyeline.

He wasn’t on the mound, that much was obvious, and the team round him was still talking.

“He’s like one of those little fainting goats? You know? Like you scare them and they just fall right over. McFuckin’ Cute.” Shitty, who sounded closer than anyone else, and it turned out it was because he was crouched down behind Eric’s curled back.

“Those goats like…die young though.” Ransom, who was stood a few feet away. “Like heart conditions or some shit. I saw some article online about it. Cute as fuck kittens had the same thing, but then they all died.”

“Shit. Bits, you’re not going to die, are you?”

Eric let out a shaky laugh. “Uh. Maybe if you just lift me into the dugout, I’ll be just fine. Hah. Uh…” Off in the distance, he could see Jack at the fence, looking furious, shouting at who Bitty was pretty sure was Hall.

Shitty grabbed Eric under his arms, then hauled him to his feet and gave his ass a too-long perfunctory pat down to shake all the dust off. “You wanna tell us what the actual fuck just happened out there?”

Eric flushed, and felt another wave of dizzy, but he clung to his consciousness with vicious intent. “Uh. Well…”

“Has that ever happened before?” Shitty asked.

The short answer was yes, it had. The longer answer was, yes, but not in baseball. It had happened exactly four times before. Twice on the football field when his dad tried to push the issue. Once in the PE hallway at his middle school, and once right before he was beaten up and shoved into a storage closet for way too many hours.

He dragged his hand down his face. It was not exactly a difficult line to trace between the why it happened, and the when. It was the look on Jack’s face of abject hatred which Eric had seen before. Right before some homophobic dick came at him with a full-body tackle, or a punch to the jaw, or heavy hands to shove him into a tight, dark space.

His brain had just assumed that look on Jack’s face meant Jack was going to hurt him. The ball had come at him and then…

He’d just gone down.

He didn’t know how to tell those guys it probably wasn’t going to be an issue, because come spring he wasn’t going to be playing Jack. And he could keep it together. He’ done it in Georgia, he could do it here.

“Yeah I don’t um…I have no idea. It’s probably this dang hangover,” Eric said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Man, Jacques is not going to be happy about that,” Holster said, glancing over to where their captain was now marching over.

Eric swallowed thickly. “Should I lie? I should definitely lie, right?”

“You should seriously fucking lie,” Shitty said, clapping Eric on the shoulder. Then, like the bunch of traitors they were, they scattered, leaving Eric to Jack’s rage.

He came up on him, face pulled into a furious glower, and he got right up in Eric’s space. “If you can’t get with the fucking programme, Bittle, then quit. I don’t need this shit on my team this year. I already have Chad the biggest dick on the planet to deal with. I don’t need you fainting like some southern belle every time a ball comes at you? Got it?”

Eric said nothing. His eyes burned and his throat was hot, and he didn’t think he was going to win any points with Jack for bursting into tears. So instead he just nodded, backed up, and went to the dugout.

He wasn’t called up to pitch again. Not for that practise, anyway.

*** 

Eric jumped in his seat at the sound of someone pounding their fist on the glass. He looked up through Annie’s slightly fogged window to see the smiling face of Finley, who was wearing a striped scarf and a black cardigan, and a huge grin. He pointed to himself, then at the empty seat across from Eric, and not really sure if he actually wanted company or not, Eric just shrugged and nodded.

He wasn’t feeling particularly hospitable at the moment—considering after the game and after whole fainting goat thing, Jack had glared daggers at him during downtime at the haus, then at team dinner. But Eric was trying to take it all in stride. He’d filmed a sort of shaky, probably too-emotional vlog when Jack had gone out for a run, then he’d laid flat on his back until he couldn’t take it anymore, and had escaped for a decaff white mocha which would give him the illusion of coffee but allow him to sleep before class.

“Hey,” Fin said as he slid into the seat. “I thought you’d be at the hockey house getting ready for their big kegger thing. It’s pretty epic—or so I’ve heard. I’ve never exactly been invited.”

Eric shrugged, not really wanting to deal with a party right now, but he knew he’d have to go back eventually. “It was…a long day. Long practise. Didn’t go as well as I’d hoped.”

Fin’s face dropped a little. “Ah, sorry, cariad. That’s not good.” He leant over and hovered his hand over Eric’s for a second, then let it drop, warm and soft. Eric was suddenly and profoundly grateful for Fin being there—for the universe realising Eric needed some touch comfort before he realised it himself. “You wanna go take a walk or something?”

Eric’s eyes flickered to the mostly empty walkway leading to toward the lake. “Um. In a minute, maybe?” He cleared his throat. “So ah…how are you?”

Fin laughed, pulling away to adjust his scarf again, shrugging. “Not bad, not bad. I was a little disappointed we missed each other Saturday night. Even with all the texting.”

Eric’s eyes widened. “The…texting?”

Fin’s brows dipped. “You…yeah. You texted me, were trying to give me directions but I couldn’t understand you and you weren’t making more sense than disco ball and flashy lights.”

In a panic, Eric grabbed his phone and opened up the thread between him and Finley. And sure enough, it was mostly garbled, drunken typos and emojis. The football made sense now, but at the time it was pretty obvious he’d been nothing but a hot mess. “Oh…lordy. Oh my god. Fin I…”

Fin reached across the table and touched his hand again. “It’s fine, yeah? No worries at all. I thought it was cute.”

Eric felt himself flush, and felt a rush of affection for the person looking at him now without wanting to set him on fire. With sturdy resolve, he grabbed his cup and squared his shoulders. “You know what, a walk sounds really good right now.”

Fin’s smile widened, and he offered the crook of his arm which Eric happily took. The air outside was brisk, especially as they neared the water, and Eric huddled in closer and somehow found the events of the afternoon spilling from his lips like verbal waterfall of literal shit. He didn’t exactly want to show this cute guy who seemed actually interested in him what a disaster he was, but Fin didn’t seem too put off by the whole thing, listening intently, nodding along.

“…so then he just gets in my face and starts shouting at me that if I want to be on the team, I need to get my shit together. And…and it’s not like I fainted on purpose. Or that I’ve ever done it before. Like that, I mean. But the guys said it was better if I lied so…I don’t know. I just…” He shrugged, trailing off, not sure what else to say.

“Oh, cariad,” he breathed, using that word again. He pulled Eric to a stop, crowding him against one of the more shady trees away from a sleeping gaggle of geese, and he plucked the coffee out of Eric’s fingers. Setting it to the side, Fin righted himself and touched Eric’s cheek. “I’m sorry. That’s shit and you deserve better.”

“What’s cariad mean?” Eric asked, mangling the word with his southern drawl, and focussing on that instead of the myriad of other things he wanted to say—or do, since Fin’s mouth was _so_ close to his right then.

Fin’s lips twitched. “Means…darling, sort of. Sweeheart. Term of endearment. It’s Welsh.”

“Right,” Eric said, breathy, then cleared his throat. “Right. Welsh. I like it. I like the sound of it.”

“Do you?” Fin asked, then stepped in closer. “I’d like to give you a cwtch, cariad,” he murmured, low and soft.

Eric blushed. “What…is that?”

“Mm, have to show you that,” Fin said, his voice even lower, a little deeper in the back of his throat as his hands went to Eric’s sides. “It’s nothing…untoward. Think of it like a Welsh cuddle.”

“Which is?” Eric pressed, profoundly aware of how Fin’s hands felt on him.

“Like a normal cuddle, but better. Because it’ll be with me. And it’s guaranteed to at least take the edge off how terrible you feel right now.”

“Promises, promises,” Eric said, but he nodded all the same and let Fin crowd into him, arms round him, face buried against Eric’s neck.

He hadn’t been wrong. It was probably the best hug of Eric’s life.

Until two voices across the quad started screaming, “Mother fucking get it, Bits! Yeah!!”

He sighed, pushing Fin back slightly and sighed. “Do you want to come to a party with me tonight?”

Fin laughed, reaching up to push Eric’s fringe back from his forehead, and he nodded. “I’d love to.”

*** 

In hindsight, getting schwasty with Fin next to him instead of across campus being subjected to Eric’s terrible drunk-text problems was a much better idea. What didn’t help was being sat on the Green Couch of Doom with two cups of Shitty’s dodgy tub juice, and watching across the room as Jack leant into the space of a very pretty, very tall blonde, making her laugh with whatever he was saying.

Because it meant Jack was human, it meant he was capable of being charming and sweet, and of making someone laugh—of wanting to make someone laugh and feel good. And he had just chosen not to do that to Eric. He had chosen to make Eric feel miserable.

Jack winked at Shitty before grabbing the blonde’s hand and leading her up the stairs, which in turn made Bitty down what was left in his cup, then get up for another.

And then another.

Until he only had a vague, foggy memory of being hoisted up over Holster’s shoulder and carried up the stairs as he called out a slurred goodbye to Fin who was watching with—possibly—an amused grin.

None of it really made sense til morning, in his first class which was a creative writing lecture, and his phone buzzed a few minutes before his professor arrived.

**I hope you were able to sleep most of that off. Even completely pissed you’re absolutely adorable. Can I see you again?**

Eric thought this guy had to be some sort of saint to put up with all that. And part of him, strangely, wanted to say no, wanted to keep himself from getting too heavily involved his first week there, and committing himself to anything that wasn’t his team, and his classes.

*** 

The dark look must have carried over to lunch, where most of the team had gathered with their giant piles of nachos which had been served in sloppy bowls. The idea of it made Eric’s stomach churn, so he helped himself to a salad and a muffin leftover from breakfast, taking a seat next to Ransom who was staring at him with a raised brow.

“Who pissed in your Wheaties?”

Eric sighed. “It’s nothing.”

“Lies. You know that’s a fine, right? Lying to your teammates?” Holster declared. “Tell us, or face the consequences.”

“Nothing you dish out can possibly be worse than the shit Shitty cooked up in that tub,” Eric said, but the temptation to spill to his newfound friends was also overwhelming. “Fin wants to see me again.”

“Tragic,” Holster said, his tone deapan.

“Yeah,” Ransom cut in, pointing his fork at Eric. “How dare an adorable British guy, who wants to literally put your penis in his mouth, want to spend time with you. What a _dick_.”

Eric sighed, covering half his face with his free hand. “I’m not…it ain’t like…that,” he said lamely. “I like him, and I don’t mind the…the p-penis stuff,” he stammered. “But I think he wants like…more.”

“Oh,” Ransom said, and glanced over at Holster, the two of them sharing something meaningful. “And you want to sow these wild college oats.”

Eric shrugged. “I don’t want to, like, go wild or anything. But I’m not sure I want to commit to one guy my very first week here, you know? But what, so I just tell him? And what if that’s not what he wants at all and I end up looking like a giant ass? Or what if it hurts him. Or what if…”

“Bits, babe,” Ransom said, putting his hand on Eric’s to silence him. “Look, what’s the worst that can happen? He decides not to put your penis in his mouth? Like that’s kind of what you’re leaning toward now, eh?”

“And bonus, if you tell him and he still wants to put your penis in his mouth, then you get blow jobs and the chance to play the field. So to speak,” Holster finished with a grin. “We have a literal spreadsheet of other dudes who are into penises in mouths, too. Like this isn’t your one-shot at getting your dick wet.”

Eric was flushed, bright red, unused to so much casual sex talk…considering he’d never really had any, and had kind of been at best an open secret in Georgia. He swallowed thickly and glanced round the table, grateful the only one who seemed to be paying them any attention at all was Jack—and that was just to make sure Eric hadn’t forgotten about how much Jack hated him.

He sighed. Why did all the hot ones have to be such straight assholes?

“Okay. Okay, you have a point.”

“Look, bro, how about this. Tomorrow evening after team dinner, we hit up a couple spots,” Holster said. “Jerry’s does country night on Tuesdays, and that’s your jam, right?”

Eric glowered at him. “Exactly when, besides my accent, did I ever give off a country music vibe to y’all?” He grit his teeth. “ _And_ if y’all even say a word about y’all…”

Holster held up his hands. “Bits, please. You grew up in Georgia, you know you have a soft spot for it. And don’t even tell me you wouldn’t climb Kane Brown like a mother fucking tree.”

Eric bit his lip, but flushed because okay yeah, fine. Fair. Though he was going to claim it was everything to do with the singer’s smile and his tattoos. “Lord have mercy, _fine_. But you two are payin’ for drinks.”

“If it means that accent of yours gets all thick and cute like that,” Holster said, waggling his brows, “it’s worth it.”

Eric groaned, and tried not to feel Jack glaring at him, and let his head fall on the table.

*** 

“Bittle! You’re up. You warm, son?”

Eric glanced over at Hall who was chewing a massive wad of gum, pacing slightly with his hands clenched behind his back. He glanced at the line-up and when he didn’t see Jack, he looked round and eventually found him with Chowder and Murray, going over what looked like a few plays.

With relief, Eric nodded and did a few last stretches before taking the mound. He glanced down at the balls in the small bucket near his ankle, then across to where Johnson was crouched behind a waiting Nursey. Nursey looked nervous, but Eric gave him a smile. It was batting practise, no need to humiliate anyone.

“He needs to work on hitting curves,” Jack shouted, making Eric jump. “Don’t fucking strike him out, but don’t go easy, either.”

Eric flushed, hating himself for how well Jack got under his skin, but all the same, he nodded and grabbed his first ball. He felt it, warm in his hand, felt the pitch rising from his fingers to his shoulder. He took his stance, drew back, and let it fly.

It had a short curve, enough to give Nursey the practise, but also enough Nursey could hit it. It flew right past Eric, and he didn’t flinch. The ball sailed past Ransom, who ran after it, and managed to get it to Wicks, just after Nursey’s foot smacked second base.

Eric gave him another grin, then turned to do it again.

And then again.

He thought he was going to get away with it all, too. He was pitching perfectly, throwing exactly the way the guys needed him to, keeping his arm warm, keeping from getting fatigued too early. He was feeling great, and proud, and Hall and Murray looked pleased with him.

And then Jack grabbed a bat.

Eric felt his heart hammer in his chest, and he told himself that although Jack didn’t like him—had admitted to hating the pitchers on his own team—he didn’t want to hurt Eric. He wasn’t out to get him. This wasn’t middle school—this was college and Jack wanted to win, and he wanted good pitchers on his team.

And Eric was that.

He breathed, and picked up the ball. Fighting the urge to fake an injury, or turn and run, or will himself into non-existence, Eric squared his shoulders and looked at Johnson who was mouthing something behind his mask. Eric couldn’t make it out, and he saw the signal for fastball. It was what Jack was weakest at—if anyone wanted to say he was weakest at anything.

Eric’s fastball wasn’t his specialty, but he wasn’t bad at it either. It just meant the ball would be flying at him with a little more force and oh. Hell.

He let one go, and it hit Johnson’s glove.

Jack’s eyes narrowed, his jaw tightened. Eric wanted to apologise. He hadn’t meant to throw a strike. Lord.

He adjusted his stance, saw the signal for fastball again. He nodded, pulled back, and let it fly. The crack of the ball against the bat was just as loud, and it was sailing toward him.

And Eric, yet again, went down.

*** 

“Here brah, put this against the back of your neck,” Shitty said, giving Eric a sympathetic look as he handed over an icy-wet towel.

Eric did so, flushed with humiliation as he stared down at his bare feet. It had only taken a minute for him to get up, then he endured three eternal minutes of Jack shouting at him again before he hit the showers.

“You ready to tell us what the actual fuck is going on?” Shitty asked softly. He shifted close to Eric and gave him a meaningful look. “Dude, I get like…nerves and shit, but that was…it seemed…” He seemed to fumble for the words. “It seems like a pattern, if you know what I mean.”

Eric’s eyes cut down toward the ground and he let out a sigh so heavy, it made his body feel like it was sagging down into the bench. “I’m scared,” he said.

“Of saying what it is?” Shitty asked.

Eric shook his head. “I’m scared of Jack.” Shitty opened his mouth, and Eric held up a hand. “Okay, logically I know it’s nothing. Jack’s whatever…he’s an asshole, he hates pitchers, all that stuff. He’s not going to hurt me. Except…well, boys like him back in my school did want to hurt me. And they did hurt me, every chance they got. And every time I see him there staring at me, I think…this is it. This is when I go down, when a ball takes me out for good, because he wants me to go down.”

“He wouldn’t do that,” Shitty said quietly.

“I know,” Eric said, his voice stern and frustrated. “But actually I don’t know, because I don’t know Jack. Because he hasn’t said more than a hundred words to me so far, and ninety of those have been screaming at me. And the other ten have been telling me to eat more protein. And I believed my daddy when he told me those boys just wanted to scare me. The next thing you know I’m bloody and climbing out of a storage cupboard after twelve hours of being locked inside.”

“Jesus, Bits,” Shitty said. He glanced at the door where the guys had all exited not long before, and then he looked back at Eric. “We’ll figure something out. You’re not gonna be playing Jack when season starts, but you have to learn to pitch to him. It’s part of this team.”

“I know. If I can just…get past this stupid fear,” Eric said, letting his curled fist bang against the top of his knee. “I don’t know how but…I’ll do what I can.”

“We’re here for you, brah. Okay? I promise, we are.”

Eric swallowed thickly, then nodded. “Yeah. I know. And thanks, Shitty. I’ll work on it.”

Shitty didn’t say anything else, but he did clap Eric on the shoulder, and he waited for him to finish dressing so they could walk back to the haus together.

*** 

Eric was pleasantly in dreamland when the vicious knock woke him from his sleep. At first he thought it was part of the dream, but when it didn’t stop, he peered one eye open and saw the red, glaring numbers on his nightstand telling him it was quarter to five in the morning.

“What the fuck?” Eric murmured as he pushed himself up.

“Checking practise, bro,” came Johnson’s muffled voice from the bed. “Gotta fit it into the narrative somehow. It’s a turning point for the plot.”

Eric frowned, wondering how Johnson managed to still be stoned after a long night’s sleep. But the knocking persisted, and he didn’t have time to ponder it as he threw the door open and saw Jack stood there dressed in joggers, a light hoodie, his arms crossed over his chest, his usual frown on his face.

“Suit up, Bittle,” he ordered. “Grab your shit. We’re heading down to Faber Field.”

Eric blinked at him. “I’m sorry…what?”

Jack rolled his eyes. “You heard me. We’re heading down to the field. If you can’t get past this…whatever it is during practise, then you’re going to work with me in the mornings. No questions. Get your shit, let’s go.”

Eric wanted to argue, wanted to throw a full tantrum about being dragged from his bed before the damn sun was up, but Jack’s face booked no argument, and Eric wasn’t brave enough just yet to tell his captain no. Which was why he found himself dressed in his own joggers and hoodie, carrying his bag over his shoulder.

They said nothing during the walk, and the air was crisp enough it dragged Eric out of the last vestiges of his sleep. He watched Jack out of the corner of his eye, surprised to see his face more relaxed than it had been the last few days, but he didn’t want to draw attention to it.

Jack unlocked the gate, then let it swing open with a creepy whine, and gestured for Eric to enter. The field looked strange in the pre-dawn light, haunting but gorgeous, and he took a breath of the morning air as Jack fetched a bucket of balls, a bat, and his helmet.

“What are we…” Eric began.

“We’re going to fix this problem. I’m going to sit here and hit balls at you until you stop falling over and start catching them,” Jack said. “I’m not letting this get in the way of our game this year, Bittle.”

Eric swallowed, but nodded. “Okay.” He grabbed his glove and marched over to where Jack was pointing. He squared his shoulders, and looked Jack dead in the eye as Jack grabbed a ball, tossed it in the air, and swung.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People have noticed that Jack definiely has more of a chip on his shoulder, and is more of an arsehole than he usually is in fic or canon, and that's because I'm trying to sort of marry his canon character with the one in the film I'm basing this on. At the very least, I think it'll make the bit where enemy turns to lover bit that much sweeter. x But I thought I'd just point out that the asshole Jack thing is definitely on purpose, and there's an actual reason for it--not just to magnify the angst.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few lines regarding Jack's conversation with his dad and the fist bump comes straight from canon. No real warnings for this chapter.
> 
> Feel free to let me know if I've fucked up any of the baseball stuff x

Rising up on shaking legs, Eric braced his hands on his thighs and fixed his captain with the fiercest glower he could manage. “Jack…can we please…”

“Stop?” Jack interrupted, and shook his head. “No, Bittle. We’re not stopping.”

“I just don’t…”

“Listen,” he said, his captain voice in full-force, making Eric wince. “You’ve got good hands, I’ve seen your tapes—I’ve seen your two-hitters, three hitters, okay? You’ve got a good eye, a great arm, and when you’re not fucking falling over, you’re an asset to the team.”

Eric blinked in surprise. It was the closest Jack had ever come to paying him a compliment.

“And,” Jack carried on, “I’m aware it’s just me. I’m not going to ask why, but I can tell you that there are going to be other guys just like me that’re going to make you…” He waved his hand up and down Eric’s body. “Whatever. Fall over. Faint. Whatever it is you have going on.”

Eric stared at him. “Shitty didn’t say?”

Jack snorted. “Shitty showed up in my room and told me to get my head out of my ass and start acting like a captain. So here we are.”

Eric digested this bit of information for a moment. It made sense, he supposed, and in a way he appreciated Shitty hadn’t said anything. And in another way he felt his stomach sink because if this didn’t work, he was going to have to tell Jack, of all people, why all this happened. And he didn’t think Jack was the sort to extend anyone—especially a fainting pitcher like himself—any sort of leeway or sympathy.

He sighed. “How long do we have to keep doing this.”

Jack took a step back, grabbing another ball from the bucket. He fixed Eric with a long, steady look. “As long as it takes. But actually the field is being rented by one of the little league teams and they’re going to be here at seven.”

*** 

Eric had slipped into Annie’s for a coffee between classes when he saw a familiar face. He hadn’t talked to Fin yet about what he wanted—what he needed, actually—and he didn’t think he had the emotional strength to do it now. He’d managed to drag his ass back to the haus for a fifteen minute power nap in a fog of weed smoke Johnson and Shitty had left over in his room, then a shower, and his first morning class.

His entire body felt like a giant bruise, whether it was from muscle tension from bracing himself before he hit the ground, or from the fact that he _had_ hit the ground so many damn times he literally _was_ a giant bruise.

All the same, it was nice to see a friendly face, especially the way Fin looked genuinely excited to see him, and waved him over after he got his triple shot latte. He took a sip, certain he could feel the caffeine sinking into his bloodstream, and then pulled a chair out across from the other man.

“Hey, you,” Fin said, kicking at his ankle lightly. His eyebrows rose when he saw Eric wince upon sitting. “Are you okay?”

“Oh, fine,” Eric said, sighing heavily. “Just my sadistic captain dragging me out of bed at the ass-crack of dawn to run drills so I can get over my apparent PTSD.”

Fin blinked at him. “Are you…having me on?”

Eric shrugged. “No? I mean, I don’t know that I have PTSD, but…”

Fin held up a hand. “Seriously, back up a second and explain?”

Eric really didn’t want to, but running his mouth with ambiguous complaints wasn’t fair to Fin, so he gave him a truncated version of his experiences with football assholes and his apparent—and random—fear of Jack’s rage.

“I don’t actually think he wants to hit me, or that he ever will. Not on purpose, anyway,” Eric said, pausing to sip his drink again. “But I can’t help it.”

“That actually does sound like PTSD,” Fin said. “I mean, you don’t have to be an ex soldier fresh from battle to have PTSD. That sounded traumatic. You might want to actually talk to someone about it.”

The idea had merit, but Eric wasn’t sure he wanted to be _that_ guy on the team, either. The guy who had to see the therapist so he could play? And maybe that was the sport talking—the hyper masculine bullshit that said all the men on all men’s teams had to suck it up and swallow their feelings and think solely with their dicks and their alcohol abused livers or…whatever. And the haus, so far, had thrown a lot of that out the window. They were baseball guys, but they weren’t Baseball Guys. They were sunflower seed spit and chewing gum, and a lot of vulgar shit-talk, but they didn’t look at him like he was some loser because he liked to bake pies and sing Beyonce, _and_ also pitch an amazing curveball.

But therapy with classes and practise seemed…

Well.

He figured he’d just give Jack’s way a try for a little while. “I’m alright,” he eventually said.

Fin did not look convinced, but he didn’t press the issue either, which Eric was profoundly grateful for. “So, what class have you got next?”

“Astronomy,” Eric said. “I’ve been putting off my last lab science class because I’m terrible at it, but this is the only other one that didn’t require more maths, which I’m also terrible at.”

Fin chuckled. “You and me both, mate.” He held up a fist, and Eric bumped it. “Except I got mine out of the way Freshman year.”

“Well I’m hoping this one turns out alright. I guess they lost the professor, so it’s starting late with this new guy and…” Eric sighed again, tired of complications in his life, even small ones like professor swaps. “Anyway, I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

“You just need sleep. And maybe a good shag,” Fin said with a wink.

Eric flushed. Hard. “Ah uh…”

“Speaking of. This weekend, my mates are having another party—of course. I thought you might want to drop in. You could just…plan to stay, you know? Not that we have to…I don’t mean…I’m not implying a shag or anything,” Fin said, blushing slightly.

It was endearing, and Eric softened toward him. And really, he didn’t have to commit, but it didn’t mean he had to stay celibate either. “Can I think about it? I um…I kind of wanted to talk to you about all that but I don’t have the time right now and it’s…awkward? Maybe? For a coffee house?”

Fin just smiled at him. “Yeah. How about I text you and I can come round later? When we’re both free.”

“I’ll bake you something,” Eric said, and he pushed to stand, but Fin grabbed his hand and yanked him down to brush a soft kiss over his cheek. “Oh,” Eric said softly.

Fin laughed. “See you soon?”

“Yeah. Yes,” Eric said, and reminded himself that no, damn it, he did not want a boyfriend. Not yet. Not now.

He made sure not to look back as he pushed the café door opened, and hurried down the street.

*** 

Eric stepped in the lecture hall just in time to see a very, very tall, gangly man with shaggy brown hair tip an entire stack of what looked like poorly stabled syllabi on the floor. The man cursed in a language Eric didn’t recognise, and looked up.

“Uhg. First day disaster,” he said, his accent thick and heavy.

Being the only other person in the hall, Eric set his coffee and bag down, then hurried to help the guy tidy up. He looked young—much younger than an astronomy professor should be, so Eric had to assume TA, which was just as well. He hoped maybe if this guy was another student, he could garner some sympathy over how terrible he was bound to do in this class.

“Thank you,” the guy said. “You student here, yes?”

Eric nodded. “Uh. Yeah. I’m um…Bittle. Eric, I mean,” he said, shaking his head at himself. Damn team. “Are you the TA?”

The guy laughed, rubbing the back of his neck. “No. I’m professor. Am showing how bad though, already. So nervous. Was teaching just one class, you know? But then something happen, this guy, he go missing, then call and say he not coming back so they saying to me, ‘Alexei, you take this one class. You have room, you can do it.’ I’m worry, you know? Maybe am so bad at it? I’m still only student.”

Eric blinked at him. “Student…?”

“Getting my Ph.D. and try to work so I can become full time professor. Am only doing one more year before this. Am hope is not one big disaster.”

Eric smiled softly. “Well if it helps, so far I think you’re probably the nicest professor I have here. Just don’t judge me too much if I can’t get anything higher than a C, and I won’t judge you if you’re a little…clumsy.”

He laughed, loud and raucous and clapped Eric on the shoulder. “Is good, we having a deal then. You sitting in front, can be my special helper, and I’m not ask you questions, not put you on the spot.”

Eric rolled his eyes, but agreed and took up a seat near the front of the hall where the podium was. “Fine, that’s fair. And you go easy on me when I show up wrecked from practise.”

Alexei’s eyebrows went up. “You sport guy? What kind of sport?”

“Baseball,” Eric said, absently rubbing at his shoulder. “We don’t start til spring, but our Captain is a goddamn sadist and has a bunch of off-season scrimmages and practises lined up. He works harder than god,” Eric said dryly.

Alexei’s eyebrows shot up. “You meaning Jack.”

Eric groaned. “Of course you’d know him.”

Alexei shrugged. “I’m play hockey, very little bit of time before having injury and have to do other things. Am invited to throw pitch one game for Yankees. Bob, he’s hitting home run on my pitch. We have drinks after, talk a lot. We follow each other on twitter.”

Eric let out an involuntary laugh because _of course_. “Well then I guess you know who I’m talkin’ about.”

Alexei laughed. “Yes, Jack, so serious guy, focus you know. Will break many records. Maybe I’m come to scrimmages, cheer you on. Hold big sign saying Go Eric Bittle! What position you playing?”

Eric couldn’t help another laugh at the thought. “I’m a pitcher.”

“Then we same, me and you. I’m pitcher, you pitcher. Just try not to throw home run,” Alexei said with a wink. Their conversation was immediately cut short as students began to arrive, and Alexei took on a more professional approach, even if he was still a gangly mess of limbs and bad decisions that left him knocking more than just one thing to the floor.

But he caught Eric’s eye a few times and winked, and Eric realised that at the very least he’d made a sort of friend. And maybe even if he did get just a C in this class, he wasn’t going to hate it as much as he thought.

*** 

“Alright, listen up fuckos,” Shitty said, crossing his arms over his bare chest. The locker room had the faint, ugly smell of body odour, Old Spice, and dirty jock, and Eric was trying to rush through changing so he could get back to the haus and at least attempt to get started on his studying. Or … start on a pie, either one. “Our glorious, sweet-assed, Canadian…”

“Enough,” Jack said with a sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose. “As you know, we have our first scrimmage coming up next week against Yale. It’s during family week, so it’s the time to show off if need be. Hall and Murray will be posting the starting roster next week, and I’ll be assessing changes if I need to. We’re going to have practise every day except Saturdays, so if you’re not going to be present, you can walk your ass off the team right now.”

Eric tried not to roll his eyes at Jack’s words now which just sounded like a hissy-fit rather than a concerned captain. And it wasn’t like he thought Jack didn’t care about the team—clearly he did, but Eric didn’t think his threats of love it or leave was having much effect.

“Yo, dude, what the fuck happened to Chad?” Holster asked after Jack sat back down.

Jack turned his head and snorted. “That stupid fuck bailed after he couldn’t take the criticism.”

“Yeah, plus coming at Jackabelle like that…” Shitty’s jaw was tight, and his tone harder than Eric normally heard it.

“Fuck that guy, anyway. I heard he hung out with the LAX bros on his off time,” Ransom said, waving his hand dismissively.

They continued to chatter, pulling their clothes on, and it wasn’t long until Eric and Ransom were the only two left in the locker room. He stood over Eric as Eric did up the laces on his trainers.

“Alright, bro, did you do the thing with the hot Brit yet?”

Eric blinked up at him. “Do the thing?”

“Fuck him and leave him,” Ransom replied.

Eric flushed hard, turning away. “Oh my god, _no_. I didn’t. I haven’t even had a chance to talk to him with the whole Jack dragging my happy-ass to the field at five am every morning, and classes after that.”

Ransom softened. “Is it helping?”

“What? The pitching practise?” Eric asked, then dragged a hand down his face and sighed as he pushed up. “I…guess? I was able to catch a few without collapsing, so that’s something I guess. And the fact that he’s depriving me of much-needed sleep ensures I’m too dang tired to be pissed off with him.”

Ransom snorted and slung his arm round Eric’s shoulders. “You want me to carry you home?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Thank you, but no. I can carry my own pert butt home. But if we can get there in the next fifteen minutes, I’ll make you some sugar pies.”

Ransom’s eyes widened, then before Eric could argue, he was slung over his shoulder in a fireman’s carry, and hauled down the street.

*** 

Eric dug his spoon into his fro-yo, not nearly as healthy as it was supposed to be, weighted down with cookie dough chunks, and a huge dollop of dark chocolate syrup. He’d half a mind to snap a photo and send it to Jack with the caption, _do you think this has any protein in it_ , just to piss him off. But he didn’t want to give Jack any chance to retaliate.

He glanced across the table at Fin, who had invited him out after Eric had sent a Shabbat afternoon SOS text when Jack had tipped over the ping pong table and stormed up the stairs, swearing viciously in French. Holster was still downstairs, shouting passive aggressive, mocking comments, and Eric knew it was going to explode before it got better, and he didn’t want to be present for it.

“Feeling any better?” Fin asked.

Eric snorted a laugh. “It’s hard to feel bad with this.” He lifted his spoon and let the chocolate drizzle down from the end. “And I’d rather listen to a hundred people gossiping about nonsense than deal with Jack and Holster trying to murder each other.”

“Why do they do it?” Fin asked quietly. “Why lock themselves up together like that?”

“It’s just a thing, I guess. They actually get along alright, most days,” Eric said with a shrug. “I don’t pretend like I get it. I’m just glad I had an escape.”

“I’ll be your escape any day, cariad,” Fin said, and winked.

Eric felt his face go hot. “I…thanks. Um.” He cleared his throat. “I was thinking though. About us?”

Fin didn’t look worried, only curious as his eyebrows rose. “Yeah?”

“I just…um. I like you.”

Fin let out a tiny laugh and sat back, setting down his yoghurt and crossing his arms. “But,” he pressed.

Eric let his breath fall from his chest in a long sigh. “But I don’t think I’m ready to…I don’t…I’m not sure what you were hopin’ to have with me and I’ve never really been involved before. So I don’t exactly know what I’m doin’, and I’m not sure I want to like…put all my eggs in one basket, if you know what I mean.”

Fin was quiet a moment, then leant on the end of the table with his elbow, his chin resting on his hand. “Do you know you get almost aggressively southern when you’re nervous?”

Eric flushed hard. “Lord, are you really gonna make fun of me right now?”

“I’m not making fun. I think it’s cute,” Fin said. He dropped his hand, then clasped them both near his yoghurt and gave Eric a serious look. “I like you. Friends, boyfriends, somewhere in between, I don’t care. I’m an easy guy, babes. You want me to be the guy you call up sometimes when you need a good snog, or maybe your dick sucked? I can be that guy. You wanna call me in six months and be boyfriends? If I’m not involved with someone else, I can be that guy too. Please don’t get yourself worked up because people are making you think this is more than it is.”

Eric licked his lips, fighting back the urge to fling himself across the table and kiss Fin stupid. He got it. He got it and it was fine and Eric wasn’t losing anything at all. He merely smiled instead, and dug his spoon into his yoghurt and said, “Yeah that sounds…that sounds good. Great, even.”

Fin kicked him under the table, and winked when he looked up. “Great,” he echoed, and after a second, they both laughed.

*** 

“…sure you understand why he can’t make it. He…he is proud of you though, sweetheart. And he promises to come to at least one of your games. Real games,” Suzanne added.

Eric sighed, trying to smile through it. “Yeah no, I get it, momma. I’ll just be happy to see you. Thanks for coming.”

“You know I love a chance to show off and meet your new friends, Dicky,” Suzanne said with a laugh. “And you can show me around, maybe introduce me to anyone you…have your eye on.”

“Momma,” Eric said, a cross between a panicked sigh and a tired one rushing from his lungs. “I’m not…I don’t have time for dating right now. With extra practises and a heavy course load…”

“I’m only saying, sweetheart.” She paused a moment. “I got me a car from the airport, so I’ll meet you somewhere after I get in. That sound okay?”

“Sounds perfect. Love you.”

They hung up after that, and Eric abandoned the ball of pie crust dough in his bowl, and headed up the stairs. His mother’s flight was in an hour, and after a tour, he’d take her to the field and they’d have their first scrimmage—an evening game with Yale which had Eric all nerves. He told himself it would be no big deal. Hell, he’d played Yale back at Georgia and it hadn’t been anything at all.

But now all he could think about was facing down some big, angry batter who was aiming balls at his head and going down, and having everyone stare at him as he couldn’t…

He froze in the hallway, hearing Jack’s raised voice coming from the open crack in his door. It was rapid French, full of anxiety and nerves. Unable to help himself, Eric peered through and saw Jack near his closet, his head pressed against the open door, nodding at whatever the person was saying on the other end.

Eric did not miss the way Jack’s free hand was shaking.

He didn’t need to understand French to understand the way Jack looked seconds away from a panic attack. Or the way the call ended, and Jack let his phone fall from his hand, and his body slide into his computer chair.

Unable to stop himself, Eric knocked on the door frame and pushed the door open, stepping inside. He’d never been invited into Jack’s space before, but it wasn’t completely forbidden. Shitty was in there constantly, trying to give Jack naked cuddles, and Lardo was often sat on Jack’s floor working on canvas or scraping away at clay for a sculpture.

Jack looked up sharply as Eric entered, his brows furrowed.

“Jack,” Eric said in a rush, “I just…wanted to make sure you were okay. I heard…”

“You heard that,” Jack asked, his voice tight and rough.

Eric shook his head. “I mean, I didn’t _understand_ it, but um.” He stopped, then gave a weak shrug. “Family weekend, right?”

Jack stared, then let out a small huff of laughter. “Yeah.”

“I guess we all get nerves.” Eric, feeling bolder than ever, crossed the room and sat at the edge of Jack’s bed, close enough their knees were almost touching. “Is it worse when they come watch you?”

Jack licked his lips, then blew out a puff of air. “Ah. Not…” He stopped. “Sometimes. My dad worries more than he should, and it’s…a lot of pressure.”

Eric nodded sagely. “I get it. Back when I was figure skatin’, I would get everything dang near perfect in warmups, and then I’d look over and see my momma and just…” He mimed falling with his hand, then sighed. “It’s just a scrimmage though, right? Tonight doesn’t mean anything. And heck, you’re the best player this team has seen in years. And you and I aren’t friends so you know I’m not being baised.”

Jack’s eyes widened, then he laughed again, looking brighter and…different. It made something catch in Eric’s chest. “Thanks, Bittle. It’ll be good tonight. Just…eyes up, focus, keep your glove tight. You’ve got this.”

Then, surprising Eric to his very core, he lifted up a hand and curled it into a fist.

“Fist bump?” he asked, giving one more on instinct than anything. “I didn’t realise you did those.”

Jack laughed again, then cuffed Eric on the shoulder. “You gotta earn ‘em, eh? Anyway, go get some rest. Long day ahead, and even longer night.”

Eric pushed up from the bed, giving Jack one last glance before heading out. It was single handedly the strangest thing he’d ever experienced in this haus. And _that_ , was saying something.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another extra thank you to wrathofthestag for the baseball help in this chapter. Any errors regarding that left in here are 100% all on me.

It happened like this.

Dex was stuck in a lab he couldn’t get out of, and Holster managed to pull something in his shoulder at the bottom of the second, which left Eric the only one available to fill in. And suddenly the game became…something else. Maybe it was the sight of his mother in the stands, sat really close to Bad Bob Zimmermann—someone Eric knew now, knew to be impressed by, and even intimidated by.

Maybe it was something else. Maybe it was just a pre-game, or maybe he was feeling fired up because his practises with Jack had done something to his game—something good, something different. His nerves were on edge, but it had him throwing strike after strike until he let himself glance up at the scoreboard and saw that Yale had scored twice. Once in the first, and once in the second.

And then.

And then they hadn’t.

In the seventh-home stretch, the crowd was singing and Eric was chugging water and sucking the salt from the sunflower seed shells and trying not to acknowledge that _no one_ was speaking to him because he was _this_ close. He could see the way Jack was staring at him, though. A sort of calculating look. Jack was doing okay—he’d done better during scrimmages with the boys, but before the game everyone had clapped Eric on the back and told him not to stress out so much because this game didn’t even count for anything. They were just showing off for parents weekend. But he knew Jack had been stressed about his dad showing up so maybe it was that.

Maybe.

The eighth came and went like the seventh. Nursey hit a home run, which left Ransom’s run from second at an almost leisurely place. Jack hit a two base run at the top of the ninth, and then…

And then…

Then the very last ball of the game flew from Eric’s fingertips, sailing past a very, _very_ large and pissed off looking guy, into Chowder’s glove. 

And then it was over.

He’d pitched a no-hitter and the entire team was piling on him like they’d just won the dang World Series. Shitty was screaming and crying in his ear, and Holster was attempting to lift him in spite of his fucked up shoulder, and Ransom was babbling on about how many keg-stands Eric was going to owe them that night.

In the chaos, Eric looked round for Jack, because he was fairly sure this was all Jack. Or at the very least, a huge part of it because Eric had looked into the face of men who were similar to Jack—big and angry and potentially dangerous—and he hadn’t been afraid. At all.

By the time they finally got to the showers and by the time Eric was finally dressed again, Jack was nowhere to be found. He moved into the corridor where his mother was waiting, and after a second he felt her grab his arm and gasp. “Oh. Here comes Bob. Oh Dicky, he’s such a nice man. He’s…”

“Well, I was hoping I’d get to meet the man of the hour,” Bob said. His voice was smooth, easy, the lilt of his accent. He looked like Jack, startlingly so with his rich black hair, and his sharp jaw, and the long, straight nose. He held out his hand for Eric to take, and it took Eric a second to gather himself.

“Oh I. Mr Bad…Mr um. Mr Jack’s dad, sir.”

Bob’s eyes twinkled, and he looked to his side where Jack had just walked up. “I think Bob is just fine, son. I have to say, damn fine game. I haven’t seen anyone pitch like that in years. Jack told me about the team, but he failed to mention the next up-coming superstar.”

Eric flushed. Hard. “Oh lord, no. No, that’s not…I’m.” He cleared his throat, and rubbed the back of his neck. “Jack’s put in a lot of hard work this year.”

Jack’s voice was gruff, and he didn’t meet Eric’s eyes as he said, “Good game, Bittle. Come on, Papa. We should go.”

Bob nodded, then shook Eric and Suzanne’s hands once more. “I hope to see you again soon!”

The team was still riding their high, so they filed out and it was then Eric saw Jack walking toward the car park where Bob was probably waiting. With his heart beating, and his feet light, he rushed up and touched the back of Jack’s elbow.

Jack stopped, but he didn’t turn, which threw Eric off a little. But then again this was Jack so…

“Hey, look, I just wanted to say thank you. That game was intense and it was all because you…”

“Bittle,” Jack said, and the sheer venom in his tone stopped Eric’s words on his tongue. There was another long silence, a fierce line of tension along Jack’s shoulders. Then he said, “It was a lucky game,” and he was gone.

Eric was left stood there, stunned, hurt, and more confused than ever.

*** 

“Okay I have to ask,” Fin said, leaning up against the porch railing. Eric was sat on the steps, leaning against the side of Fin’s leg, staring out into a group of people huddled in a circle passing around a few joints. “Shouldn’t you be a little happier with what you did. I admit I know fuck-all about baseball but I’m pretty sure getting a strike with every pitch is like…a good thing.”

Eric huffed, feeling unpleasantly drunk instead of light and carefree like he’d meant to feel after his third keg-stand. “Ah. Yeah, it is a good thing. It’s a real good thing. It’s like…a thing that doesn’t ever happen.” Eric let out a shaking breath, then tipped his head up to Fin and blinked owlishly. “I’ve never done that before.”

Fin let out a surprised laugh. “What?”

“Pitched a no-hitter. Like…ever. It’s…it’s not like a thing, that happens very often. And I know it ain’t…this wasn’t…” Eric swallowed thickly, then gulped down a huge swallow of the water in his red solo cup. “It’s stupid but…”

Fin made a noise of comfort, then shoved Eric over and flopped next to him on the step. He slid an arm round his waist, hitching him close. “Whatever you’re thinking, cariad, it’s not stupid.”

Eric squeezed his eyes shut, then pressed the heels of his palms into them until he saw sparks of stars. “It was a big deal. It’s stupid that I feel that way, but I do. It was a big deal for me, and I wanted to thank Jack because I think if it wasn’t for him, I’d just’a fainted when a few of those boys stepped up to bat.” Eric wasn’t actually sure if that was true. His issue didn’t really crop up until Jack and his misplaced anger with Eric, but still. “He worked harder’n god with me and I just thought maybe he’d…”

At Eric’s silence, Fin shook him gently. “He’d what?”

“Maybe been happier for me. It isn’t just him alone on the team, you know. All of us got a job we’re doin’ and hell…I thought he’d be excited. Instead he just said it was a lucky game and stormed off like somehow I pitched a no-hitter to spite him.”

Fin sighed, then laid his head on Eric’s shoulder. “Fuck him.”

Eric gave a disbelieving snort, and Fin shook his head.

“I mean it, Eric. _Fuck_ him. Fuck him entirely. No person should be allowed to call themselves a team captain if that’s how they’re going to reward their teammates for doing something good. No,” Fin said, correcting himself. “For doing something amazing.”

Eric felt warmth through him, and not for the first time question himself and his decision not to date Fin. But he liked this, too. He liked the simple comfort of sitting in his arms and feeling warm and liked. He turned his head, and he and Fin shared a few chaste, closed-mouth kisses.

“I should go,” Fin said softly, pushing his forehead against Eric’s. “I have a super early study group tomorrow, and then practise.”

“Okay,” Eric said quietly. “I’ll show you out.” He walked Fin to the door, then kissed him again before heading into the kitchen where a few empty pie tins sat on the counter. A minute later, like magic, Holster and appeared with a half-eaten apple and he shoved it toward Eric.

“You look like you need this more than me, bro.” Holster reached out and grabbed Eric by the back of the neck, shaking him affectionately. “Anyway, good game, dude. I’m seriously going to masturbate to that no-hitter for like a month.”

“That is way more than I ever needed to know, Adam,” Eric chastised, but he only got a toothy grin in response before he walked away.

Shitty was still there, watching Eric carefully, and handed over his fork. “Licked it clean, my dude. It’s good, I promise.”

Eric rolled his eyes, but had long since learnt not to give a shit and he dug the fork into what was left of the pie. It wasn’t as good as it had been warm and fresh, but the sweet, sticky insides and flaky dough calmed him somewhat.

“Were you telling the truth about Jack?” Shitty asked in the silence of the kitchen, startling Eric.

He looked up, swallowing a bite of pie. “About what, now?”

“What you told the hot Brit? About Jack and what he said,” Shitty clarified. “Was that true?”

Eric sighed, not sure what he should say. It was, of course, but he didn’t want to cause discourse between Jack and his friends. It was clear whatever Jack had going on, he _needed_ friends. More than anyone in the haus, probably. “Um.”

Shitty shook his head, dragging a hand down his face. “I know whatever Jack was feeling, it was because his dad’s here.” Eric opened his mouth to agree, but Shitty held up a hand. “That doesn’t make what he said okay. Your friend out there Bits, he was fuckin’ right. A good captain doesn’t act that way with his teammates. Whatever fuckin’ hang-ups he’s still got about Bob and Kent, he needs to fucking check them. Because we have something special in you, and I don’t want to see him ruin it.”

Eric didn’t know what to say, so he just ate the pie instead, and basked in the incredibly warm feeling of support sitting in his belly.

*** 

Jack didn’t talk to him much after that—not apart from morning practises which he was still determined to get through, at least until he was satisfied that whatever Eric had going on, was over. He gave him pointers at practise, but mostly let the pitching coach handle Eric, and wasn’t often seen in the haus unless he was passing through the kitchen.

He stopped making comments about Eric’s baking, though he didn’t look like he approved, and he rarely partook in whatever it was Eric was producing in his off time.

So it was better than nothing, Eric supposed, though he wasn’t sure he wanted to keep living that way.

It was hard, most of the time, for Eric to see Jack as a person. And then sometimes he’d walk into the living room and find Lardo with her head pillowed in Jack’s lap talking softly to him as he brushed fingers through her hair, and it reminded Eric he could be soft. He could be…human. It left him strangely jealous, wondering how he could push past whatever vicious hate Jack held for pitchers.

How had anyone managed to break through and get to be his friend?

He was too terrified to ask.

Eric, instead, threw himself into his studies, into his vlog, and into his practises. It was near Thanksgiving that the coaches announced Eric would be on the starting line-up come their first game of the season, and everyone but Jack seemed thrilled by that. Jack said nothing, though, just tensed his jaw and looked away, which left Eric feeling cold.

After the meeting, Eric trudged to Annie’s, and froze when he heard his name being called across the crowded café. “Is favourite student! B!”

Eric saw Alexei sat at one of the tables with several books spread out in front of him, and his laptop opened.

“I saving seat for you, okay?” Alexei said.

Eric snorted a laugh. “Yeah, alright.” He shuffled to the front to order a PSL and a pumpkin flavoured cake-pop, and took the sweet to the table to wait for his name to be called. 

Alexei took the opportunity to slam his laptop closed, then crossed his arms. “You looking unhappy, little B. Everything okay?”

Eric sighed. “I…yeah? I guess. It’s nothing, it’s no big deal.”

“Not your teacher in here, you can tell me, yes?”

Eric chuckled a little, shrugging. “I’m…not used to being disliked,” he said. His drink was finished, and he popped up to get it, and when he got back, Alexei was frowning at him.

“Who not liking you? Want me to have words? Tell them what good person you are? Ray of sunshine, good worker, good student, good person…”

Eric smiled, shaking his head as he sipped the coffee. “I mean okay, I am used to not being liked. I grew up in a small town in the south with a lot of people who made…assumptions.” Eric hesitated, knowing coming out to someone like Alexei could be tricky. But there was an openness to Alexei’s face. “I mean I’m small, I did figure skating, I bake…”

“Yes,” Alexei said, nodding sagely. “Yes, I’m understand, of course. People assume I can never be. Am big guy, play hockey, am strong, you know? Have wife, many children. They not thinking I could be…” He bit his lip in thought. “Am liking more than just women.”

“Bisexual,” Eric tried, very carefully.

Alexei beamed at him. “Yes, this the word. Okay, so am that thing, and is not…maybe not safe where I come from but here…they assume anyway? That am not smart, either, because my English isn’t being the best, because I am big sport guy, must be stupid. They hear I am scientist, think…oh he can’t be. He not smart enough to know these things.”

Eric sighed. “You’re one of the smartest people I have ever met.”

Alexei’s smile widened, but his whole face was soft with it. “And you, Eric Bittle, one of nicest people I have ever meet. So who this person, hmm? Maybe I go talk sense into them?”

“No I…” Eric sat back, taking a heavy breath. “It’s Jack. Zimmermann, you know? My captain? He just…he hates me, for no reason. I didn’t do a dang thing to him, but he’s determined to hate me and I don’t…I just…” He flopped his arms in a lazy shrug. “I hate it. I should be happy everyone else on the team loves me, but I just wish he’d give me a chance. As a person, not a pitcher.”

“He is idiot,” Alexei said, waving his hand dismissively. “Trust me, he see what an idiot he is some day, make big apology.”

Eric smiled at him again, then pushed up. “I can’t stay. I have a paper due but…thanks.” He hesitated, then said, “So we’re having this um…this party, right before winter break. I know you’re technically a teacher, but you’re also a student so if you want to come, it’s at the baseball haus.”

Alexei smiled. “Maybe I’m come by for minute or two. Come in disguise, no one know is me.”

Eric laughed. “Sounds good. See you Tuesday.”

He didn’t feel entirely better, but his shoulders felt a little lighter now, and he decided he was no longer going to let Jack Zimmermann’s bullshit ruin his day.

*** 

Epikegster.

The party of the century, or so everyone kept calling it. And it wasn’t that he was _worried_ , except that he was because the boys weren’t exactly the most responsible, and everyone was trying to blow off steam from finals and the rest of the end of term stress.

Outside was frozen, inside was sweltering, and Shitty was mixing up an entire bathtub of tub juice as Ransom and Holster were trying to squeeze six kegs into the kitchen before Eric banished them outside.

Dex and Nursey were arguing and attempting to set up the sound system, and Chowder was watching from the sofa unhelpfully offering advice that was only serving to make Dex’s face get redder and redder.

Jack, surprisingly, was nowhere to be found, and it wasn’t until Lardo said, “Our dear Capitaine might not actually be a room goblin tonight,” that Eric realised Jack might show.

Which…meant very little, actually. Eric didn’t have any expectations regarding Jack over the next few days before everyone boarded planes and crammed into cars to head to their respective family homes for whatever holiday they were celebrating.

By nine pm, the whole of the campus seemed to be crammed into every nook and cranny of the haus. Eric was overwhelmed, slightly buzzed on shitty beer, and was currently leant up against the wall watching Alexei—who was wearing a shirt with huge print that read **You Heard About Pluto?** , talk to Fin who was all blushy and laughing at every single thing Alexei was saying.

Eric thought for a moment he might be actually jealous, but there was an almost serenity in knowing those two were hitting it off. They were some of the best people Eric had ever met, and he wanted them to be happy. He pulled out his phone to tweet exactly that. He was feeling all sorts of pre-holiday warm fuzzies—and not all of it was due to the beer.

Eric startled when a voice very near him cleared their throat, and his eyes went wide when he saw Jack, a little sheepish, lean up against the wall next to him. “Hey, Bittle.”

Eric blinked, then remembered his manners. “Hey, Jack. You ah…decided to join the crowd.”

Jack laughed, tipping his cup toward where Shitty was attempting to do a half-naked limbo under what used to be their kitchen broom. “Shitty threatened me, said I had to show some sort of team spirit. Or something. So here I am.”

“Oh, lordy,” Eric said, but he had a fond smile, almost a little scared of the way Jack’s voice was soft with him, missing that angry edge.

After a pause, Jack said, “Are you alright?”

Eric blinked. “Um? Yes? Why, do I look…”

“No it’s just…” Jack shrugged a little helplessly, then nodded his head to where Alexei was now leaning into Fin’s space, whispering into his ear. “Did he…did you two break up or…”

“Oh!” Eric laughed, giving Jack’s arm a pat without thinking. Jack stiffened under the touch, but he didn’t wrench away, which was…something. A start, he supposed. Eric carefully withdrew his hand. “Fin and I aren’t a couple. We ah…it…wasn’t going to work out. We’re better as friends.”

“Oh,” Jack said, then shuffled himself back against the wall. “Are you twittering that?”

“Am I twittering,” Eric repeated, then laughed. “No, but I _am_ going to twitter that, Jack Zimmermann. I cannot believe…you live in two thousand and seventeen, and you call it…” He picked up his phone, but Jack snatched it away, grinning at him. “Lord have mercy what in the world…”

“You get so aggressively southern when you’re drunk, Bittle,” he teased.

Eric hopped on his feet. “Give it here, you giant tree!”

Jack laughed again, then grabbed Eric’s wrist carefully, and pressed the phone against his palm. Eric’s breath caught slightly as Jack leant in. “Since you have it out, we should…you know. Take a selfie or something.”

“Oh,” Eric said. “Oh um. Well I…” His thumbs fumbled with the camera, turning it forward facing, then outward facing because he was shaking too hard. He flipped the camera again, and tried not to blush too hard when Jack knelt down slightly, and hooked his chin over Eric’s shoulder.

“How do you make a selfie face?”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Just your regular face, Jack.”

Jack snorted a laugh, but he smiled softly and Eric’s heart was running a mile a minute as he took two photos in quick succession. His blush was obvious, but he could easily blame it on the heat in the haus, and easily filter it out if he ever posted these anywhere. Which, yeah. That wasn’t entirely likely.

Jack stepped away. “It’s a good shot. You should send it to me.”

“Oh,” Eric said. He cleared his throat. “Yeah okay. I can. Um. I just…”

Jack’s eyebrows went up. “You just…”

“Lord, you hate me, Jack. Why on earth are you standing here taking a selfie with me?”

Jack swallowed, looking suddenly uncomfortable, unable to meet Eric’s eyes. “I don’t…I never hated _you_ Bittle. Bitty,” he amended, and Eric pretended like hearing his nickname from Jack’s lips didn’t send a sudden fire under his skin he had not been expecting. “Whatever I was feeling, that was my fault. I’m sorry. I wanted to just tell you…”

“If I wasn’t seeing it with my own eyes,” came a sudden voice, and without looking, Eric felt a murderous rage at the person who had just dared to interrupt what was likely one of the most important moment of his life. His eyes whipped round, and his breath caught in his throat when he realised who was there. 

Kent Parson.

Kent Parson, in his flannel and tight jeans and backward snapback with a smug grin and a slight glint in his eyes that made Eric go uneasy.

“Kenny.” The words tumbled from Jack’s lips like they’d been punched out of him.

Parson’s smile only got wider, tenser. “Hey Zimms,” he said, tipping his cup toward the pair of them. “Didja miss me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The following chapter will mostly follow canon events of Parse in regards to Jack and Parse's story. There isn't going to be a Parse redemption arc in this fic, but I don't plan to use him much beyond this and the next chapter, so that is about all you'll see of him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty much where canon and my AU part ways. You'll see a few similarities in Epikegster, but from here on out it won't follow much on the canon timeline.
> 
> There's no baseball in this chapter--but weirdly there IS ice skating. But is it really a check, please AU if there's not at least a little ice skating? Also some texting, and Oh no Eric...are those FEELS?

Eric tripped over a raised bit of floorboard and almost cracked his face in the kitchen before huge arms caught him, wheeling him back. “Woah, little B. Having too much to drink?”

Eric glanced up at Alexei, whose eyes were faintly red, and his lips quirked up into a smile. “I just wasn’t lookin’. This dang haus has it out for me.”

“It’s not so bad,” Fin mused as he slid up to Alexei’s side. “You okay? You look kind of freaked out.”

Eric rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flickering toward the stairs where he’d seen Jack disappear. Downstairs had only just calmed down once the team realised that Kent Parson was in the haus—not an unheard of thing, apparently, as he showed up after the Aces won the world series two years prior—but still enough of a commotion. Bitty had narrowly escaped the selfie-mill, and he’d tried to track down Jack, but he hadn’t been fast enough.

He could see from the tremble in Jack’s fingers, and the way his face went pale, that seeing Kent wasn’t exactly the best thing. “Have either of you seen Shitty?”

Fin and Alexei both shook their heads, and when Eric tried to step away, Fin grabbed his arm. “We’re okay, right? You and me?”

Eric blinked. “Yes? I don’t know why…” Then he realised what Fin was saying. “Oh, lord, of _course_ we’re okay. I couldn’t hope for someone better. He’s great.”

Fin’s cheeks pinked, and he dragged Eric into a quick hug. “Thanks, cariad. You and I might have been great but…”

“I know,” Eric said with a sigh. “I’m a freak.”

“You’re something special, and the one who catches you has to be just as special.” Fin winked, then turned and walked off before Eric had a chance to argue.

Really, all of that was pushed immediately to the back of his head as he stepped out back and found Shitty on the porch. He was almost completely naked, save for a cowboy hat, and a tobacco pipe between his teeth. He was moving in some sort of modified tai-chi motions, a baseball clutched in his right hand, and a ladle in his left.

“Shits?” Eric asked, very carefully.

Shitty slowly released his arms to his sides, and turned to face Eric. “Bits! My dude! You came for a refill?”

“Lordy, no. I don’t want to die, man. I just…um. It’s just…I was talking to Jack earlier? And well…then Kent Parson showed up and…”

“Oh mother fucking fuck me gently,” Shitty cursed. “Parson’s here?”

Eric shrugged. “Yeah. He was downstairs being challenged to beer pong by Lardo. But um. I think he came to see Jack, and Jack got kind of…”

“Yeah,” Shitty said, kind of breathy. “Might be best if you steer clear. Those two are like oil and water. Or like…gasoline and matches. Tomorrow’s going to be fuckin’ fun.”

Eric’s eyes flickered up to the roof of the porch, where he knew Jack’s window sat, leading out to the reading room. “Is he okay? He was…well. He was talkin’ to me alright and then things got…”

“Yeah,” Shitty said. “Please don’t tweet about that.”

“I won’t,” Eric said in a rush. “I wouldn’t. I just wanted to make sure he was okay.” It felt weird to care. Not a week ago, Eric would have probably relished a moment for someone to knock Jack Zimmermann down a peg or two. But things had been going a little…different. And tonight was a sort of breakthrough Eric had been damn-near desperate for. And his stomach was twisting unpleasantly to think Jack was hurting.

“Parse is a pretty mild guy, you know? Modest. But him and Jack together aren’t any good. It’ll all go back to normal after the holidays though, brah. Don’t worry.”

Eric blew out a puff of air, then said, “I should go put my phone up in my room before I get any drunker. You good out here?”

Shitty scratched his naked stomach, then nodded. “All good, m’dude. Watch out for drunk assholes. Lock your door. You don’t want to wake up with your shit all covered in vomit. Johnson will not thank you.”

Eric snorted, nodding, then hurried back into the haus and up the stairs. He was in the space between his door and Jack’s, fumbling with his key when he heard raised voices, and he froze.

“…always come here to what? Remind me about what I did?”

“That’s not…Shit, Zimms. Why do you always think…”

“What am I supposed to think when you show up here like this, Kenny? I told you…”

“Told me what? That you have it all figured out? That you _need_ this? Cut the shit, Zimms. You know you belong on a real fucking field, with a real fucking team, not some shitty, frat boy…”

“Get out.”

“Or what?”

“Don’t.”

At that, Eric actually took a step back. He’d heard Jack angry before, but never so hateful.

“What are you so scared of, Zimms? That you really did lose it? That everything you shovelled down your throat fucked you up so badly you’re never actually going to play? I’m sitting here offering to get you space on my team…”

“If you show up here again,” Jack said, and flung the door open. “I’ll…” His voice trailed off.

Parse and Jack were frozen in the doorway, both of them with their gazes frozen on Eric. He didn’t move.

After a second, Parse blew out a puff of air, replaced the snapback on his mussed hair, and stepped out of the room. “Call me if you change your mind, Zimms. But whatever, have fun here. I’m sure it’s making your dad really proud.”

“I…” The word tumbled out of Eric’s mouth, and was cut off by Jack’s slamming bedroom door.

*** 

**Jack,**

**I know you had a not-so stellar end of term, and I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to overhear. I hope these help at least a little. Have a good break, and see you in January :)**

**ERB**

*** 

_I’m surprised your cookies made it through customs, Bittle._

_But thank you. They tasted great._

**You’re welcome, Jack. I hope you have a good break.**

_Happy Christmas, Bittle._

**I know you don’t celebrate that so…happy New Year early.**

_Go to bed, Bittle. And make sure you eat some protein in the morning._

**Chirp chirp, Mr Zimmermann. Have a good night.**

*** 

_[Image attached]_

**OML I’m dying who is that sweet baby?**

_That’s Antoinette. My cat._

**Antoinette?**

_Yes._

**ANTOINETTE. YOU’VE CALLED YOUR CAT ANTOINETTE?!? JACK WHAT KIND OF MONSTER…**

_I don’t understand the problem, Bittle._

**Jack. Jack. Listen.**

**Jack.**

**You don’t call Pets people names! You…you call them cute food names like Apple Jack, or Peach Cobbler, or Flapjack! Not Antoinette!**

_I’m pretty sure two of those three you just said are My Little Ponies._

**I don’t know if I’m more shocked over Antoinette, or that you know MLP. I think I just slipped into a different universe.**

_Haha. Ask Johnson._

_Anyway, Shitty had a phase. It lasted long enough to…imprint._

**Lord, I am so glad I missed that.**

_What would you call your cat if you think mine is so ridiculous?_

**I don’t know. Pumpkin Spice? Peach Cobbler? Apple Pie?**

_I should have guessed._

**Lordy, chirp chirp. How was your New Year, Jack?**

_Standard. My grandparents flew in from Casablanca and they’re staying for Pesach so they’ll be here until mid-April._

**Casablanca? Lord, Jack, sometimes I swear your life doesn’t even seem real. But that’s great. I’m sure you miss them.**

_They only speak French and Hebrew, and my grandmother refuses to speak directly to my mother so the entire conversation is going through me while my dad is at some charity function. I’m ready to book my flight now._

**Oh lord that sounds…well. Probably a bit too much like when you get all the Bittles and the Phelpses together here. Remind me some day to tell you about the Jam War. It’s been goin’ on dang near 10 years with no signs of stopping.**

_I have no idea what you just said, Bittle._

_But it sounds a lot better than trying to soften my grandmother’s passive aggressive digs at my mom’s modelling career. When do you get back?_

**Next Wednesday. I’m hoping to get a couple of days skating on the pond before it all melts.**

_Maybe I’ll join you._

**You skate?!**

_I’m multi-talented._

**I can’t tell if you’re chirpin’ me or not, Mr Zimmermann.**

_Haha. I guess you’ll have to wait and see. Talk to you later, Bittle._

**Bye Jack!**

*** 

“Dicky, honey? Are you alright?”

Eric was still staring at his phone, which was lying face down on the kitchen table, unable to really comprehend what had just happened. Apart from Epikegster, it was the longest Jack had ever spoken to him, and he wasn’t even sure…

Eric startled, his thoughts cut off as his phone buzzed hard against the table. He snatched it up, and felt his heart leap into his throat at the name on the screen.

_Jack Zimmermann_

“Hello? Jack?”

“Bittle, what’s that song? You know, it goes something like halo halo?”

“Halo?” Eric offered.

“That’s the one.” There was a pause, then, “Bye.”

The line went dead, and Eric stared at the phone in his hand as though it had just grown arms and legs. “That was…” His words were cut off as the phone buzzed again.

_Jack Zimmermann._

“Jack?”

“Sorry. Shitty wants to skype. That’s why I hung up so fast. Um. Okay. Bye.”

The line was dead again, and Eric felt a strange, almost tight laugh escape his chest as he set his phone down and watched it like it might actually just get up and start doing a tap-dance.

“Dicky?” his mom said again.

Eric’s gaze lifted, slowly, as though he was in a daze. “Mm?”

“You look like you just seen’a ghost, honey.”

Eric rubbed the back of his neck. “No just. My captain. Um, Jack, you know? You met his dad, Bob…”

“Of course I remember Jack. What a sweet boy,” Suzanne cooed.

Eric flushed. “Right yeah.” Jack had been the opposite of sweet that night, but he didn’t think Suzanne had caught any of it. “He’s just been um…texting a lot? More than usual.”

“Oh?” Suzanne asked, and Eric could hear the tension in her voice, and he immediately felt a rush of panic.

“It’s just…there was an incident at the party right before break? Him and Par…and this guy,” he amended quickly, “they got into this huge fight upstairs and Jack was yellin’ all kinds, then locked himself away until it was time to head home. I didn’t think he’d be this chatty.”

“Well you do a good job in takin’ care of those boys, honey,” Suzanne said. She paused, cleared her throat. “So. Are there any girls you been seein’? Got your eye on?”

Eric flushed, and swallowed thickly. “No, momma. Practise and classes has me a little too busy to think about dating. Next semester’s gonna be even worse. If I started dating some girl,” he said, letting a hint of the irony slip through in his tone, “you’d be the first to know. I promise.”

She stared at him for a minute, then gave his cheek a pat and pushed up from the table, gathering the leftover pie plates and started on the dishes. “You know, after I showed your daddy the video of your game he’s been talkin’ about it to anyone who can hear non stop. Goin’ on about his boy and his no-hitter game and…”

Eric let her voice fade into the distance as his mind went back to the haus, and the look on Jack’s face right before Parse showed up. With the texts on his phone, he felt a renewed determination that when he got back, he’d make sure he and Jack became actual friends.

*** 

It was an uncommonly warm day the afternoon Eric landed in Massachusetts, and he was a little relieved to see that the street in front of the haus was mostly clear of cars. Most of the boys didn’t drive on campus, so he couldn’t be sure the haus was empty, but at the very least it would probably only be a couple of people.

As Eric pushed the door open, he was hit in the face with the powerful scent of fresh weed being smoked, and he knew immediately who was there.

“Is that our sweet, sweet baker?” Shitty’s voice rang out. “Fuck yes. Bits. Tell me you have some kind of baked good in your bags. Please, god. I need…” His voice went heavy with a lungful of smoke. “Anything,” he said with a cough.

Eric grabbed his carry-on and poked his head into the living room. His heart did a funny little pitter-patter when he realised that Shitty wasn’t alone on the green Sofa of Doom. Jack was there, a few cushions away with his legs spread out, his hands clutching the Wii controller between his knees. A game of Mario Kart was on the TV, paused, and Jack was smiling at him.

Dragging his attention back to his bag, Eric dug out some of the Christmas Cookies his mother had made him take back, and tossed the container to Shitty who let it hit him in the face, and plop into his lap.

“Fuckin’ life saver,” Shitty groaned, popping open the top and shoving a chocolate-coconut bar into his mouth. “Oh fucking fuck me. I’m going to come from how good that is.”

“I forgot how disgusting you are when you’re stoned,” Jack said. He pushed up, dropping the controller on the cushion next to Shitty. “Bittle, do you want to get some coffee?”

“Oh!” Shitty said as Eric nodded carefully, “Bring me some like…some fro-yo. With chocolate chip cookie dough and gummi bears and some of those popping thingies? You know the mango jelly ball things? And fuck…some chocolate syrup.”

Jack gave him a dry look. “Sorry Shits, just eat the cookies. Bittle and I have plans.” Jack crossed the room and leant into Eric. “Bring your skates, eh?”

Eric was bright red, trying to control his shaking hands as he fumbled with his bags. He managed to hook them both over his shoulder, stumble up the stairs, and get into his room before completely falling apart.

Jack Zimmermann.

 _Jack Zimmermann_ wanted to get coffee and go skating. Jack Zimmermann who hated him, who tried to have him thrown off the team, who had tried to belittle one of his most major accomplishments to date!

Eric didn’t want to read too much into it. Jack had once promised him they would never be friends, and Eric didn’t want to assume. But Jack was giving him chirpy smiles and giving him shit over text, and sending him pictures of his cat.

It couldn’t be just…just nothing.

Eric managed to find his skates, and an extra jacket, and was grabbing his hat when he heard Jack knocking on the wall.

“Get a move on, Bittle!”

Eric rolled his eyes. “Yeah, yeah, I’m comin’.” He hurtled himself down the stairs where Jack was waiting, his toque pulled over his head, a bag hung over his shoulder.

They headed out the door, ignoring Shitty’s further pleas for fro-yo, and Eric shoved his hands into his pockets as they side-stepped a few puddles of slush which were piling up in the holes of the poorly-maintained tarmac.

“How’s Antoinette?” Eric asked after a few moments of silence.

Jack huffed a quiet laugh, shrugging one shoulder. “She’s good. She prefers my dad to me these days, so I don’t feel bad leaving her there.” He paused, then said, “When she was a kitten, though, she was all mine.”

Eric smiled softly. “That’s…weirdly sweet.”

“Weirdly sweet,” Jack echoed with another ghost of a smile.

Rolling his eyes, Eric shuffled in toward him, elbowing him gently in the side. “You didn’t exactly seem like the fluffy kitten type when we first met, Jack.”

A splotch of colour bloomed high on Jack’s cheeks. “Yeah. I…about that. Um…”

“You said your apology enough,” Eric said quickly. “Honestly, I’m…we’re good. Really. I mean, right? We are?”

“We are,” Jack said, and then fell silent for the rest of the journey to Annie’s.

With most of the campus on the last leg of the holiday, Jack and Eric were the only two there, so their coffees only took a minute. When Eric scanned the empty room for a table, Jack grabbed the edge of his coat. “We can drink these on the walk to Faber.”

“The field?” Eric said dubiously.

“The rink,” Jack said. “Faber field, and Faber Arena.” Jack held the door for Eric, who followed him out onto the main road.

“Okay but why are we…” Eric’s words fell short when he saw across the street, all the caution tape wrapped round trees that lined the pond. There was a massive hole in the centre, and Eric could make out large cracks spider-webbed out from it. “Oh.”

“I saw it on my way in, so I called in a favour,” Jack said. With his free hand, he dug into his pocket and pulled out a set of keys. “Lardo’s girlfriend knows the Hockey Team manager.”

Eric’s eyes widened. “Well,” he said, but didn’t know what else to follow that up with, so he took a huge sip of his coffee, searing his tongue slightly.

As the arena came into view, Jack slowed his step and cleared his throat. “Listen, Bittle. About the euh…about Epikegster.”

Eric felt his whole body flush. “Jack, I promise I wasn’t trying to…”

“No,” Jack said, cutting him off. “No I…I know, Bittle. I just wanted to mostly say thank you for not ah…” He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Not saying anything to anyone about it.”

“I would never,” Eric said solemnly.

Jack fumbled with the keys, then got the doors open. They clanged against the wall, the old, familiar sound of empty arena, and the sharp scent of fresh ice which sent a shiver down Eric’s spine. It had been a long, _long_ time since he’d indulged like this, since he’d been anywhere that wasn’t a public rink full of random people. He could feel his sudden desire to get out there like a tingling in his toes, and he couldn’t help but turn his smile to Jack.

Jack, however, still looked tense, like he was waiting for the other shoe to drop, so Eric reached out and nudged him. “I know that night wasn’t so stellar for you, and I had no idea Parse was such a…a jerk.”

Jack chuckled, the tension easing a bit. “He’s not…” He stopped himself with a huff. “Okay, he _is_ kind of an asshole. But that comes with the territory, you know?”

“Asshole baseball players,” Eric said dryly. “I’ve seen it.”

Jack huffed another laugh. “Fair enough. Parse and I just have a sort of complicated history and I don’t think we’re ever going to be friends, you know? He wants…he wants things I can’t give him, and I’m pretty sure the only way I could be around him is if I could stop thinking about everything that happened. Before.” He cleared his throat and dropped his bag on the bench. “That obviously can’t happen so…”

“Impasse,” Eric said.

Jack laughed fully. “So you speak some French, eh?”

“Shut up,” Eric muttered, and flushed when Jack laughed yet again. Eric was fairly sure it was the most Jack had ever laughed since they’d met, and he wanted to treasure it. It wasn’t every day Eric got to experience the nuances and changes in a person like Jack, and he liked it, if he was being honest with himself.

They didn’t say much as they laced up, and when they hit the ice, Eric was surprised to see how graceful Jack was on his skates. Hockey ones, Eric realised, as he stared at Jack making backward circles.

“Let me guess, you played hockey?”

Jack shrugged. “We moved to Montreal when I was a baby, lived there during the off-season. It was something to do.” He did a complicated manoeuvre which Eric thought would probably have looked amazing if he’d been holding a hockey stick. “I almost considered doing that instead of baseball. I wasn’t sure I’d be able to live up to my dad’s reputation. Sometimes I wonder if things would have been different if I had.”

Eric felt something warm in him. Jack was _sharing_. He was opening up in a way Eric had never expected, and it was making him feel things. Things he knew he shouldn’t explore just now. “I’m glad the future of Baseball has you to look forward to, Jack,” Eric said, and went into an elaborate spin. He was a little dizzier than he might have been years back, but he managed to skate out of it without wobbling too much, and he had to laugh at the look on Jack’s face.

“So you weren’t kidding about the figure skating?”

Eric snorted. “I would never joke about that. Or pies.”

“I noticed,” Jack said. He skated up close to Eric, snowing his skates a little, and grinning. “This was nice. I’m glad we did this.”

Eric let his elbow bump into Jack’s, still ignoring the funny whooshing feeling in his gut. “Yeah, Jack. I am too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side-note, Jack in this fic is Jewish, not Quebecois. There's a detailed explanation [here at my tumblr](https://angryspace-ravenclaw.tumblr.com/post/165371305915/so-im-writing-this-new-check-please-fic-and-i) as to why I'm still writing Jack as Jewish, but not Quebecois. In this fic Jack is a Sephardic Jew--Bob is originally from Morocco--and their first language is French, and Jack _did_ spend most of his childhood in Montreal. But from everything I've read, and from all the Jewish people who live or have lived in Quebec, you would not be Jewish AND Quebecois due to a long history of isolation in the Jewish community from the Quebecois population, and a long history of anti-semitism. That being said, Jewish Jack is far more important to me than Quebecois Jack, so that's why I made the choice that I did. It won't be a huge feature in the story, but I thought I'd mention that now, in case anyone was wondering.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey! Spontaneous update! I have like three days in my schedule where I don't have to do anything heavy, so I decided to update this fic. Yet another special thanks to wrathofthestag for the baseball document which is my Bible regarding this fic <3 ILY so much <3 <3
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: homophobic comments/slurs, baseball injury involving a concussion.

Eric’s hand was shaking slightly as he held the selfie-camera to his face. He was fairly sure this wasn’t anything he could use for his channel, but talking to the void made things a little easier. He was wedged in an alcove in the tunnel, the sounds of the growing crowd getting louder by the minute. He was freezing, even geared up in his uniform with his hat low over his brow, and he wondered how he was going to get his fingers to grip the ball, let alone win the game.

He wasn’t starting pitcher, thank god. He was fairly sure he’d puke or pass our or something if he had to be the one to take the mound in the first inning. Jack was already on a rampage, yelling at half the team, and nearly reducing Dex to tears by the end of warmups.

That was when Jack had turned and fixed his eyes on Eric. And that was when Eric had run.

“…just, y’all, I’m not sure this is a good idea. I mean, this isn’t my first game—far from it. But for some reason I feel like a little frog who’s never seen a full stadium before and I don’t know why I’m like this. I want to say it’s Jack, but things with him have gotten so much better and I just…” Eric let out a shaking breath, dragging his hand down his face.

“Bitty?”

Eric fumbled to turn his camera off, and had just tucked his phone away when a cheery face poked into the crevice. It was Chris, flush with the excitement of the pre-game, his braces glinting with his wide smile.

“Everyone’s been looking for you. Are you okay?”

“Just a little nerves, C,” Eric said, patting Chris’ shoulder as he eased himself out of the concrete nook in the wall. His body was stiff from the cold, but he tried not to let it show lest Jack rip him a new asshole for curling up somewhere frigid. He shook out his arms and legs, then cracked his head from side to side and felt the blood rush into his limbs. “I’m good.”

“Okay. Jack was threatening to kill everyone if we didn’t find you,” he said.

Eric gulped. “Sorry. I…just needed a minute. Sorry.”

Chris laughed and clapped Bitty on the shoulder. “Hey, it’s fine, right? We all need a minute sometimes. I think it’s just because he cares. Plus we’re playing Yale and they were the biggest dicks last time. Even with your swawesome no-hitter.”

Eric flushed. “I just hope y’all aren’t counting on me for that again.”

Chris laughed. “You know we are. But no one’s going to hate you if you can’t pull it off.”

They reached the entrance to the field, and Eric could see his team in the dugout, save for Holster who was warming up, and Shitty whose cheek was swollen with a wad of gum, and he was doing some sort of funky yoga moves near the dugout entrance.

“Where the hell were you, Bittle?” Jack snapped as Bitty moved to grab his glove to warm up his arm.

Eric gave him a quiet sigh. “I just…” He stopped, and Jack looked—just for a second—worried about him. He cocked his head away from the guys, and Eric followed with some resignation, knowing he was about to get his ass handed to them.

As they leant against the fence, Jack ducked his head in close. “Are you okay?”

That…was not what Eric was expecting. He blinked a few times, then said, “Yeah, Jack. Honest. Just…Yale was kind of a weird game and um…you know. It was great but it was also…”

“It wasn’t a lucky game,” Jack said fiercely, putting his hand on the side of Eric’s neck and clutching tight. Eric felt the warmth spread from Jack’s palms, seeping all the way into his cheeks. “You got a no-hitter because you’re a fucking amazing pitcher and I was being a jack-ass about it. But you’ve got this, and we’ve all got your back, okay? I’ve got your back.”

Eric couldn’t bring himself to speak, so he just nodded, eyes hot but dry.

Jack gave him a fierce nod. “Let’s fucking do this, okay?” He held out his fist and before Eric could bump it, there was a snort behind them.

“Fucking homos.”

They both turned, and out of the corner of his eye, Eric saw Jack’s face slowly flush, mouth tipped down in rage. “What the fuck did you just say?”

It was the beefy hitter from Yale that had scared the crap out of Eric last time. He gave Eric an ugly smile. “You heard me. I knew the rumours about Samwell, but I didn’t think their teams were all queer.”

“I’m sorry you’re so insecure because a couple of homos beat the shit out of you last game. Pre-season, no less,” Jack said, his voice low and mocking. “I wonder what your team said about you when we struck you out?”

Eric tensed, but the guy walked off, and Jack turned toward him, eyes steely and determined. “We’re going to wipe the fucking floor with them tonight. Got it?” He extended his fist again, and when Eric bumped it, neither of them seemed in a hurry to pull away.

*** 

Eric was put in at the top of the sixth, when it was clear Holster was tired. Eric took the mound solely because Dex wasn’t warm enough, and was still shaken by Jack’s shitty attitude before the game. Eric met Jack’s eyes as he grabbed his glove and took his place, and felt solidarity in his chest when Jack gave him a nod.

He spit on the ground, then scuffed it with his shoe. The first batter reached the plate, and Eric felt the bite of his grip in his hand. _I’ll show these assholes what a homo can do_ , he thought to himself.

He threw the first pitch, and felt a wave of satisfaction when the word, “Strike!” reached his ears.

Bottom of the eighth, and Eric wasn’t tired. He was warm, and on a two-hitter, which wasn’t a no-hitter, but it was still good. No one was speaking to him, no one was even looking at him, and he could feel the tension as he took the mound. His fingers clenched on the ball when he saw who was stepping up to the plate.

The guy gave him a look, and Eric took a breath. Something was settled in his stomach, unpleasant and ugly. His arm pulled back, leg lifted. The ball flew from his fingers and straight into Chris’ glove.

Eric grinned, and saw rage slowly rising on the batter’s face. His jaw clenched, and he spit on the ground, adjusting his stance.

Eric breathed, rolled his shoulders, and let the second ball fly. 

Strike two.

_Just one more_ , he reasoned. He only had to strike him out once more and he probably wouldn’t have to face him again.

Eric’s eyes narrowed when he saw the signal Chris gave him. Fastball. Those were not Eric’s specialties, and he’d already watched this guy hit a two base run on Holster’s throw. But maybe Chris knew something he didn’t. And maybe it was because this guy was prepared for what Eric was going to send him, and maybe this would be what caught him off-guard.

Eric nodded, pulled his arm back, and let the ball fly.

There was a moment—like slow motion, like Eric was out of his body and watching the whole thing play out from a few feet above himself. Eric had been hit before—that was nothing new. But there was something about the way the batter moved, the way he gripped the bat and hit the ball, and it startled Eric to the point he couldn’t react. He didn’t have time. His glove had just started to raise as the ball ploughed into him. His body went flying backward, and seconds before he hit the ground and everything went black he thought, _Huh, I thought this would hurt more._

Then, everything stopped.

*** 

“Holy fucking fuck, he looks dead.”

“He’s not dead, Shitty. That’s not even funny.”

“RIP Bits, we will miss your pies.”

“I will fucking kill you myself if you two don’t shut your goddamn mouths.”

Eric blinked, and he shifted, pain radiating from his head, down to the tips of his toes. He opened his mouth to groan, and he barely stopped himself from vomiting all over. The past few hours felt like a dream, and even now he was in a slight fog, a little confused about where he was and how long he’d been there.

It was the starchy sheets and anaesthetic smell that answered the first question. He was in hospital.

“What uh…” His mouth felt thick, like it was full of cotton, and his hand ached from where he had an IV needle.

“You took that hit like a fucking champ, Bits,” Shitty said, his voice lower now. He was leant over Eric’s bed, his long, thin fingers curled round the railing. “And you didn’t fucking die. That’s a record right there.”

“I have a concussion?” Eric asked.

“Gnarly one,” Shitty replied.

Eric rubbed at his temple, and winced. His head was bruised from the impact, and he knew that there was a damn good chance he was out for the season. He felt sick all over again. “Did we ah…did we win?”

Shitty’s face fell. “Jack lost it after you went down. He just sort of…went feral and attacked the guy. He’s got a pretty sweet fucking shiner to show for it. Murray insisted the team get called for it, said it was a deliberate hit, but in the end it was ruled accidental. They carted you off and it wasn’t the same. We lost by two.”

“Oh.” Eric squeezed his eyes shut. “When can I go home?”

“Like Georgia home, or haus home?”

Eric’s eyes flared wide again. “What? Haus home. Why would I…what do you…”

“Your mom’s been calling a lot,” Lardo said, startling Eric since he hadn’t realised she was there. She poked her head out from behind Holster. “She’s already been on with coach and everything. Thinks maybe you should sit the rest of this semester out and…”

“No,” Eric said, almost desperately. Having a concussion was bad enough, but being banished to Georgia… “Is that what…if I’m not playing is that what I have to do? Move out?”

“No! Shit, Bits, you’re not being booted,” Ransom said quietly. “Just, it might be a long recovery and we didn’t know if you’d be more comfortable there or…you know. Here.”

“I can’t go home,” Eric pleaded in a soft voice. He was getting tired again, the pain oppressive and intense.

Lardo sighed, reaching over to squeeze his needle-free hand. “Get some sleep, okay? They’ll let you go tomorrow, and we’ll be here to pick you up.”

Eric nodded into his pillow, and squeezed his eyes shut, and hoped for sleep.

*** 

By the following morning of his release, Eric’s concussion had been declared mild. The doctor assured him most of his symptoms had been from the shock, not the injury, and provided he didn’t backslide into nausea or aphasia, he could recover in a week or two.

He was waiting outside near the pick-up zone when a truck pulled up, and Eric’s breath caught in his throat when it was Jack, by himself, who hopped out. He looked somewhat sheepish, his cheeks mottled pink with a faint blush, and he extended a warm hand to help Eric out of the wheelchair.

“Are you dizzy at all?”

Eric shrugged. “A little, but nothing too bad. Just kind of…tired. Foggy.”

Jack nodded, and helped Eric climb into the seat before getting in. He didn’t pull away from the kerb straight away, but kept his intense gaze on Eric for a long moment.

“Do I have something on my face?” Eric asked.

Jack opened his mouth, closed it, then took a breath. “I…no. Sorry. We can talk about it at the haus.” He switched the trunk on and pulled away.

Eric appreciated the silence, and appreciated that Jack was rich therefore had an incredibly nice car with a smooth ride which got them to the haus in one piece. His brain was whirring, wondering what exactly he and Jack had to talk about, but he knew thinking too hard wasn’t good for him. He was supposed to be on mental and physical rest.

He still couldn’t ignore the way his heart beat harder when Jack helped him from the truck, then kept his hand pressed to Eric’s lower back, then hovered in the doorway of his room as Eric shuffled to his bed and eased himself down.

After a tense pause, just when Eric thought Jack would go, he stepped in and shut the door. Grabbing the computer chair, he spun it backward and straddled it as Eric pushed himself further on his bed. They were close—close enough that if Eric reached out, he could touch Jack’s thigh, though he wasn’t going to do that. Lord, he wasn’t that concussed.

Jack licked his lips, then said, “I owe you an apology. This,” he said, and waved his hand loosely at Eric’s bruised face, “was my fault.”

Eric’s eyes widened. “What? Oh honey, no. I mean, I know it was on purpose, but the only person to blame was that festering homophobe—bless his heart—who decided this was the way to handle whatever it was he was feelin’.”

Jack sighed, and his finger absently rose, pushing at the slightly swollen flesh near his left eye. The shiner wasn’t as bad as Eric’s bruising, but it was an obvious mark of the fight Jack had gotten into.

“I heard y’all stormed the field, beat the other team down.”

Jack snorted very quietly. “Something like that. I’ve never…merde, I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry before. I saw what he did, the deliberate…” Jack’s voice went hard, intense, and he had to swallow through his frustration. “I wound him up,” Jack said after a second. “I knew he had something to prove from the last game and I mocked him and that wasn’t my place. I put you in danger. I told you I had your back, and then I put you right in front of him. I won’t do that again.”

Eric almost laughed, but instead he shifted forward and bravely put his hand over Jack’s. He felt Jack tense under him, just a little, but Jack didn’t pull away. “There’s always a risk to this game—more so for me because I _am_ a little homo in a world of sports, and people are going to know that about me, Jack. And some people are going to be real angry about it. Maybe it wasn’t the greatest idea to mock him about how a gay boy beat him. That…could have been handled better…”

“Merde,” Jack swore again. “I knew better, Bittle. I did, and I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you,” Eric said, and tried to push all the sincerity into his voice that he could. And he did forgive Jack. Not because of the way he felt about him, or because he was biased about his captain, but because Jack meant the apology. He realised what he’d done, and he realised what it potentially cost Eric. It wasn’t for the team. Jack was sorry because Eric had gotten hurt, and because Jack cared.

“I’ll be better,” Jack said, fierce and low. “You deserve that.” In the silence after, Jack’s hand turned, and he linked their palms together.

Eric had to wonder if it was the fog from the concussion, or if the situation really was that surreal. But whatever it was, they were holding hands and Jack wasn’t dropping his gaze.

“I trust you,” Eric finally said, a little breathless.

Jack squeezed his fingers, then gently—so gently—he pulled his hand away. Rising from the chair, he pushed it into the desk, then marched to the bed and eased Eric back against the pillows. “You need rest. A lot of it. Me or one of the guys will bring you food later, and no texting, no twittering, none of that. Got it?”

Eric rolled his eyes, huffing, but nearly melting under Jack’s attention. He almost laughed—something loud and borderline hysterical, when Jack actually reached down and _tucked him in_. “Lord have mercy, you silly boy. I’m fine. It’s a mild concussion.”

“And it will stay that way if you follow the rules.” Jack reached over for Eric’s phone, and pressed it into his palm, though he didn’t pull away. “Promise me you’ll only use it to make calls and only if you need something.”

Eric huffed, but was grinning through it. “Lord, fine. I promise.”

“Sleep well, Bittle. I’ll see you in a while.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Eric muttered, and in truth, he was tired. The emotional fatigue combined with the injury was enough to knock him off his feet.

Jack took his time closing the curtains, switching off all the lights, and then he was gone, leaving the door open just a crack. Eric lay there for quite some time, in spite of his exhaustion, wondering what the hell was really going on with Jack Laurent Zimmermann.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is short and unbeta'd, but I wanted to get something out since I have a massive massive paper due mid-November so I'm trying to update as many of my WIPs as I can.

Eric felt weak—uncomfortably so, but it wasn’t his first go round with injuries. He’d cracked his head more than once, and although this was some of the worst he’d received, he knew how to manage. He let himself rest two full days before finally giving into the restlessness in his limbs. Everyone was meant to be in class, so Eric crept downstairs, holding the banister tightly, and pulled one of the stools into the kitchen to start on a few baked goods.

The boys were being good enough not to complain about the lack of pies and cookies, but they’d been taking such good care of him, Eric felt it was only fair to let them come home after a gruelling Wednesday to some sweets. He had a few tins of cherries—not his first choice for pies, but would do in a pinch—and for these frat-boys, he didn’t think they’d much care.

It didn’t take much effort to get the pie crust going—and there was always vodka handy. He had it balled up, wrapped, and chilling, and was just starting in on his momma’s famous browned butter cookies when the front door opened.

Knowing he wasn’t _technically_ allowed to be out of bed, he froze, and tried not to flush when he heard an all-too familiar sigh behind him.

“Bittle.”

He should have known Jack would be the one to pop home between lectures.

“I thought you had a busy day Wednesdays,” Eric scolded, still not turning round from the pot of butter which was just starting to foam. He felt a sudden, warm presence at his back, and he felt himself blush, hoping Jack would think it was from the cooking heat.

Jack had been a very solid, very persistent presence in his life since the injury. And though Eric had told him a good dozen times the hit hadn’t been his fault, he could see the weight of Jack’s guilt resting on him. Eric supposed that’s just the way Jack was, though, and no amount of assurance would change his mind. So he let him fuss. Let him sit in his room and read out of his history text books, and let him read out his twitter feed which was particularly hilarious in his sort of accented deadpan.

He let Jack flip through his German text book, and tried not to laugh too hard at the way Jack would pull faces and attempt to pronounce words, and declare, “You should have taken French, Bittle. I’m disappointed.”

“Well lord, Jack, if I’d known I was comin’ onto a team with a French boy…” he’d retort, then giggle when Jack would thwap his ankle with the edge of his book.

It felt homey and domestic and the product of fantasies he really wasn’t allowing himself to _have_ right now because Jack wasn’t his to have, and this was due to his injury, not because Jack was having a change of heart. Plus he wasn’t entirely sure Jack even swung that way. Sure he’d heard some _things_ regarding Parse, but Eric wasn’t about to make those sorts of assumptions and have Jack really hate him. Plus he’d known plenty of boys up for a little experimenting, only to quickly reject it. And Jack, at the hands of Parse, had plenty of reason to reject it.

So, self preservation in full swing, Eric allowed himself the pleasure of basking in their newly-formed friendship. At least concussions were good for something.

“They had those bacon and avocado sandwiches you like so much at Annie’s,” Jack said, and Eric almost jumped a foot in the air when Jack’s voice spoke directly into his ear. “I got you one.”

His heart was thumping, and he pressed a hand to his chest before reaching back and giving Jack’s cheek a pat. “You’re a dear. Now let me finish this up. It’ll need to cool for at least thirty minutes, so I can eat then. Are you stayin’?”

Jack hesitated, then nodded and took a few steps back, though he didn’t go far. “You’re not supposed to be doing this, you know,” he said after a moment.

Eric sighed and watched as the foam died down, and the butter began to bubble, halfway through with the process. “I brought a stool in just in case I got dizzy, which I’m not. Honestly, I’m healin’ up just fine.”

“I’ll believe it when the doctor says it,” Jack said in a firm tone.

Eric rolled his eyes and waggled his spoon at Jack before sticking it back in the butter as it began the process of the second foam. “You quit mother-hennin’ me, Jack Laurent. This isn’t my first go round with a knock to the head. And I’m following all the other orders. Just let me live and bake my pies.”

Jack laughed softly, a sound that was mostly foreign in the haus, and he took a final step back. “Alright, alright.” Jack watched carefully—Eric could all-but feel Jack’s eyes on him—as he put the butter back to cool, then wiped his hands on a kitchen towel before turning.

“Now, about those sandwiches…”

Jack was grinning.

*** 

Eric knew Jack had afternoon lectures, but when Jack didn’t leave after lunch, instead walking into the kitchen to help Eric finish the cookies, he decided to let it play out. Jack hovered, playing with the flour as Eric worked all the ingredients together, then he got Jack to help him with the lattice, which only turned out half a disaster in the end.

“This is terrible,” Jack groaned as some of the strips sagged into the cherry filling. “I’m completely ruining this pie.”

Eric laughed, poking Jack on the nose, then brushing his thumb across his cheek to swipe away some stray flour. He saw Jack’s cheeks pink, but quickly pushed it aside. “It looks fine, I promise. And even if it looks a little…”

“Dégoûtant?”

Eric raised a brow. “That doesn’t sound very friendly, Jack,” he warned, crossing his arms. “And I’ll have you know it’s one of _my_ pies, so it’s going to taste delicious and that’s what matters. You hear me?”

Jack grinned so wide, Eric thought maybe his face would crack in half. But the work was done, and the timer was set, and he put the pie in the oven and closed the door. When he turned back, Jack was watching him with a careful expression, and Eric tried not to blush again.

“Do you need to get to class, or you wanna help me taste-test these cookies before the boys get home and devour them all?”

Jack’s smile softened, and he took a step closer. Then another. When he reached past Eric for a handful of the now-cooled cookies, his arm brushed across Eric’s front, strong and with purpose. “I’ve already missed most of my day. I don’t think there’s any point in trying to rush off to the rest of them.”

Eric drew his bottom lip between his teeth, then giggled softly when Jack pressed a cookie into his hand. “Alright, then. I guess we can make a day of it.”

Jack’s hand fell to his lower back, and he urged Eric into the living room. “Come on. We can find something on Netflix.”

Eric flushed, ducking his head to try and hide it. “Lordy, I thought I wasn’t supposed to break any rules, Mr Zimmermann.”

Jack _winked_ , which Eric thought could be considered attempted murder at this point, and he shrugged. “We’ve broken most of the other rules already. Why not a few more, eh? Besides, I heard history documentaries go really well with browned butter cookies.”

“Oh lord,” Bitty groaned, but he certainly didn’t protest when Jack’s hand pressed harder on his low back, and he let his captain propel him to the sofa.

*** 

Eric wasn’t anywhere near well enough to participate in games until nearly a full month later, and even then, he was benched as Dex was brought in for Holster at the top of the sixth. They were in New York, enjoying the spring evening, the drawling chants of the NYU crowd hoping that Samwell would tank badly and go home crying.

That didn’t happen. It was a close game, but Dex was on fire by the top of the eighth, and Jack knocked it out of the park not once, but twice after that, with bases loaded. They fled the field high on their victory, and even Eric felt it, though he was stinging from not being able to even warm up, let alone take the mound.

They celebrated, though. Holster invited his brother and sister to come out, which led to some over-the-top drinking. Eric, knowing full well how pissed their coaches were going to be, and knowing he wasn’t allowed to participate or suffer the wrath of the doctors and his glowering captain, merely shrugged down in the booth and hoped for the best.

It wasn’t long before Jack joined him, and Eric felt himself go warm all over, inching closer to Jack without really being aware of it. He looked up at Jack, who was looking down at him, a soft expression on his face. His mouth opened, like he was going to say something, but Holster’s voice quickly carried over the din of the bar. “Holy shit, they’re talking about our boy on ESPN! Turn that shit up!”

Eric literally felt Jack tense as one of the bartenders grabbed the remote and whacked up the volume until the announcer’s voices were droning over them.

_“…and then you’ve got Zimmermann who is showing real talent, but is it? Is it really, Dan?”_

_“I don’t really see where you’re coming from, Jason. I mean, so far this season he’s shown great promise as both a player and a leader…”_

_“I’m simply pointing out that we might be giving him more than he’s due simply because of his father. And that’s a lot to live up to. He has an entire history of drug-use to over-come, and I feel like if we go easy on the guy…”_

Jack was up and out of the booth, rushing through the crowd of people even as the boys began to boo and hiss loudly until the TV went down, and the music went back up. Eric gave Jack only a moment to rush out before going after him, seeing his form slip through the side-door which led to the alley.

He quickly slipped through the shadows, and outside where Jack was braced against the wall, his hands in fists at his sides as they shook. Eric had dealt with his own issues enough to know that rushing up to Jack and gathering him into his arms like he was desperate to do, might be the worst thing for him. So instead he slipped onto a pile of wooden delivery crates, pushed his hands between his thighs to keep the warm, and he waited.

“They’re not wrong,” Jack finally said, his voice high and tight.

Eric almost choked on his own tongue. “Jack,” he gasped, then hopped down, approaching Jack with fury in his eyes. “I’m not going to dismiss what their words are doing to you, but I’m not going to let you wallow. They are wrong.”

“Bittle,” Jack said, his voice tired.

But Eric wasn’t having it. “I saw the worst of you this year. The spoilt, angry dipshit with a chip on his shoulder and hate for his team, and the belief he had to carry everyone. And I saw that slowly, practise by practise, and kegster by kegster, melt away. You’re better, Jack. You’re _good_. Your talent isn’t overrated, and you are the sort of person who will one day go on to captain a baseball team. An MLB team, Jack. Not because of your dad, but because you’ve earnt it. And I will fight you.”

Jack looked up, almost startled for a second, then his lips turned into a soft smirk. “You’ll fight me, eh?”

“I’m feistier than I look,” Eric warned, giving Jack a playful nudge with his shoulder. “Concussion or no, I could probably take you with the proper motivation.”

Jack bit his lip, then chuckled and said, “I wouldn’t want to test it. I’d be murdered in my bed if I fucked up their access to pie a second time.”

“You didn’t do it the first time,” Eric said, very, very soft.

Jack looked at him another long while, then gave a nod and reached for the door. “Ten more minutes. Then we get the hell out of here. I’m exhausted and we have a long drive back.”

Eric nodded and let Jack drag him back inside. They settled back in the booth, Jack somehow closer than he was before, and Eric wasn’t exactly reading anything into it, but he wasn’t dismissing it, either. He looked across the room and locked gazes with Shitty who winked at him, and nodded. It said, _thank you for taking care of him_ , and it said something else too, something Eric wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

But he couldn’t deny something was changing, and he was ready to grab hold for dear life, and never let go.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided I really wanted to get this done, so I did. This is the last chapter, and the next will be a short epilogue. I also changed the rating cos I realised it wasn't going to get any more explict than this. I'll most likely have the epilogue sorted and posted by the end of the week. x

Eric hadn’t seen him at all that day, and he was telling himself it was fine. He cherished Fridays with Jack—the lead up to Shabbat which meant Jack was a little more introspective, and quieter, and not so focussed on things like baseball or his agent, or which team was currently courting him. Rumour had it Jack was already signed, but no one had said a word—the news locked up tighter than Star Wars spoilers. Normally Jack spent Friday afternoons at the field with some of the guys for a little extra practise, then maybe for a coffee at Annie’s, then maybe just some time sat outside on the porch with Eric as they watched the sun slowly creep over the horizon.

Ransom, Holster, and Jack lit candles and said their prayers in the living room—everyone always steered clear, though sometimes Eric would sit at the top of the stairs and close his eyes, and listen to the soft baritone of Jack’s voice rising above Ransom’s more gravelly one, or Holster’s dramatic, musical theatre tones. It was sweet—it was uncommon, though Eric couldn’t deny he’d heard Jack crooning along to Annie Lennox singing Georgia on my Mind once or twice behind closed doors.

But today was different. Jack had gone for a morning run, and he just hadn’t come back. Eric was working on a honey challah loaf at Holster’s request, watching the sun dip lower into the horizon, and he was fighting off a real urge to just burst out of the haus and scour campus until he found his grumpy team captain.

It was right then, right when the anxiety was becoming too much, that the front door opened and Jack walked in. He was still in his running clothes, though there wasn’t a hint of sweat on him, and there were dark circles under his eyes. His hands, before he shoved them behind his back, were shaking. He paused to give Eric a careful look, then said, “Tell the boys I’ll be in my room and not to get me tonight.”

Eric gave him a slow, careful nod, then watched him grab the banister so hard his knuckles turned yellow-white, and he headed up. Taking a deep breath, Eric went back to work, and only when he set the challah to prove, did he find Ransom and Holster to relay the message.

When neither of them seemed surprised, Eric figured this wasn’t the first time Jack had bowed out, and he decided a walk was probably in his best interest. He grabbed his keys and phone, then found himself wandering the campus.

He found himself at Annie’s, stood outside for a minute watching the harried faces of students cramming for upcoming midterms. Every table was taken, the high-tops near the windows with the laptop chargers, and amidst the crowd, Eric spotted two familiar faces leaning in close to each other, laughing over a stack of books and what looked like a stack of papers with red marks on them.

He walked in, bypassing the queue for coffee, and approached with some hesitance.

Alexei spotted him first, and his freakishly long arm darted out, seizing his wrist to pull him down. “Itty Bitty! Why you out so late?”

Eric frowned. “Because it’s seven pm and I’m not five. It’s not past my bedtime.”

Fin flinched and gave Eric a careful look. “Trouble in paradise?”

Eric shook his head, then stopped, then nodded. Then shook his head again. “I don’t know. Things have been alright, I mean I’m healin’ up real nice and we’re doin’ real well as a team. But Jack’s seemed…off today.”

Fin looked over at Alexei and they shared a look Eric couldn’t begin to read. After a second, Fin said, “Maybe you could ask him?”

Eric let out a tiny laugh. “He rushed on up to his bedroom and skipped out on his evenin’ prayers. He never skips those. I don’t think he wants to see me.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Fin said, then kicked him under the table. “They have chicken and rice soup tonight, and I swear it bloody cured my flu last month. Why not take him some? If anything, I bet the gesture will cheer him a bit.”

Eric opened his mouth to argue, but decided that maybe Fin was right, and at the very least making Jack smile couldn’t hurt. Or well, it wouldn’t hurt Jack. Everything hurt Eric now, the pining was starting to get out of hand, but he didn’t care so much. He’d take whatever he could get. “Thanks,” he breathed.

Alexei pat him on the shoulder, hard enough to knock him to the side. “Tell captain we see him at next game. Cheer so loud.”

Eric rolled his eyes, but smiled fondly. “Literally none of us miss you when you’re there, Alexei. But I’ll let him know to keep an eye out.” Gathering himself, he braved the queue, got the soup, and a couple of fresh cookies to go with it, then headed back to the haus with a tiny flicker of hope in his heart.

*** 

The haus was suspiciously quiet when he walked in. No noise, no chatter, no Holster bitching about being bored, or that no one wanted to play games with him. There was a faint smell of smoke, like when a candle had just gone out, and from the attic, Eric could hear the faint thrumming of music he didn’t recognise.

He took it as a sign to get this over with. The energy was strange, and he figured he should just finish up the challah and get to bed. He could surprise the boys with a nice brunch when they got back from services in the morning, and he might even be able to keep Jack and Holster from attempted murder over Catan.

He couldn’t do much, but he could do _that_.

Taking the stairs as quietly and carefully as he could, Eric found himself stood outside of Jack’s door, the soup warm against his palm, and the cookies making a few, round grease stains against the paper bag. He licked his lips, then carefully knocked. 

There was a long moment of nothing, then Jack’s soft voice, “It’s not a good time, Shits. Seriously. I just…”

“It’s not Shitty.” Eric cleared his throat, preparing to tell Jack he’d just brought some soup for him and he’d leave it there, but the door swung open and Jack hauled him inside.

Eric let out a tiny noise of surprise as Jack slammed the door, then all-but stormed over to his desk chair he’d currently been occupying, and he sat. He was half-tipped over his thighs, face pointed down at his knees, taking several carefully calculated breaths.

“Jack,” Eric said, very softly. “Can I…”

“Give me a second,” Jack said, snappy but not cruel.

Eric’s jaw clamped shut, and he wandered to the bed, perching on the edge with the food in his hand. He listened to Jack’s breathing, slow and steady, with the occasional hitch. It was more than a second—it was nearly five minutes, but eventually he looked up and his eyes narrowed on Eric’s hands.

“I brought you some soup,” Eric blurted.

Jack blinked owlishly. “Soup.”

Eric nodded, then shook the bag. “And some cookies? I…you seemed like today was kind of…and silly me, I hadn’t thought to actually make anything for dinner which was my mistake but…”

Jack let out a huff, somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, and he shook his head. “It’s not your job to feed us, Bittle. You know that, right?”

Eric felt his cheeks heat up, but he grinned and shrugged anyway. “Well I can’t contribute much round here, but cooking is something I can do.”

Jack stared at him, his face devoid of expression, but his eyes were more intense than Eric had ever seen them. His jaw worked, like he was trying to speak, and when he finally did, the words sounded strained. “Do you…do you really think you don’t contribute to this team?”

“Well the team,” Eric said, trying to brush Jack’s tone off with a light laugh. “I mean, I know I’m a good pitcher, Jack, but…”

Jack was on his feet then, crossing the distance between them, settling beside Eric so close their thighs brushed. His gaze didn’t drop. “You’re why this team is the way it is, Bittle.” His voice was softer, not matching the firm look in his eyes. “Why we came together this year better than we ever have. I…but it’s not just…” He made a frustrated sound, shaking his head. “It isn’t just baseball, Bits.”

Eric gave a full-body shudder at the sound of his nickname falling from Jack’s lips. “Well I…”

“You’re important. To all of us.” Then, so quiet Eric wasn’t entirely sure he heard it. “To me.”

Eric swallowed, then reached over and pushed the soup into Jack’s hands. “Please eat something tonight. Keep up your strength. I could tell something happened, and you never have to talk to any of us about it, but at least know we’re here. You don’t have to sit in here alone.”

Jack stared at the soup, then back up at Eric, and he said, voice full of purpose, “I’m not alone now.”

*** 

Eric stayed. He darted down to start the challah, then darted down to finish it. But apart from that, he stayed. They watched conspiracy theory documentaries on Netflix until Jack was slumped against him and not shaking anymore. They split the cookies earlier, and now Eric was soft, and warm, and sleepy against Jack’s prone body.

Jack had somehow managed to shuffled his way low on the bed, so his face was buried up against the side of Eric’s ribs, his arm tucked firmly round his waist, and he didn’t stir until Eric tried to extricate himself from Jack’s iron grip.

“Whazzit?” Jack murmured, snuffling his face against Eric’s t-shirt.

Eric’s entire body felt like it was on fire. “I should. Jack, honey, I should go to my room. You’re tired.”

“S’good here. Stay,” Jack murmured. For a second, Eric was half-sure Jack didn’t realise who was in his bed, and what he was asking. But then his head popped up, only one eye open, but he was _seeing_ Eric. “Seriously, Bits. It’s late. Just…stay. If you want.”

He wanted. Lord God _almighty_ he wanted. So he did. And maybe it was foolish, and maybe it was just quiet masochistic tendencies he was unaware of before now, but he was fairly sure no force on the planet could make him leave. The most he did was wriggle round until they could get the blankets up over them. Jack shifted again, tucking Eric close like he was a giant teddy bear, and then with the glow of the dying laptop, and the dark of the late-night sky, the pair of them slept.

*** 

Eric woke, bleary and groggy to the feel of fingers in his hair. He blinked up, eyes blurry and aching with lack of enough sleep to see Jack’s form leaning over him. “I’m heading out to services. See you later, eh?”

Eric managed a nod, then snuggled back against Jack’s pillow, taking a deep breath of his scent.

*** 

He woke an hour later, his limbs soft and heavy, but the realisation hit him hard and he jumped from Jack’s bed, hurrying out as though if he didn’t get away, he’d ruin everything he’d worked so hard for. Self-preservation kicked in hard, and somewhere deep in his brain he knew he’d never let himself assume anything about Jack—that if this was something, Jack was going to have to make himself very, _very_ plain.

He did what he did best, instead of wallowing—he cooked. He made French toast with some of the challah, set out fruits, little pots of flavoured yoghurts, toasted some bagels, everything his boys might want after a long morning.

Eric felt better knowing Jack had gone to services—like whatever had been wrong with him before was starting to feel better. And he liked to think he had at least something to do with it. Eric wasn’t the first person to cuddle with Jack in his bed. They lived in a haus with Shitty who took it upon himself to give everyone a, “good, naked cuddle when the mood called for it.”

But last night, Jack had rejected Shitty, but had all-but dragged Eric into his room and kept him there. 

Whatever happened in the future, Eric was never letting that go.

He found himself staring at the team schedule which was attached to the fridge with a giant red parrot magnet. Panic started to grip him when he realised how close they were—how they were probably going to make it to the CWS, how they could actually _win_ this, and whatever his career might end up after this, it could be _everything_ for Jack.

And maybe that’s what it was last night. Eric felt like an idiot, and he wanted to bash his head against the fridge until he knocked sense back into himself, but just then the door opened and he could hear Holster’s loud voice carrying over the others, talking about his date tomorrow night.

Eric sighed, but poked his head round the door and yelled, “Brunch!”

Suddenly there were haus members everywhere, not just the ones back from services. He was shuffled to the side as plates were flung round, and the table was all-but cleared, and they were all singing his praises. He was laughing, pleased he could be of some help, and he didn’t notice Jack until an elbow softly poked him in the ribs.

“What did I say about cooking, eh?”

Eric blinked up at Jack who had a plate filled with fruit, and a cut bagel with a large smear of peanut butter on each piece. “I’m not…this wasn’t…” he spluttered, still a little shaken from the night before.

Jack’s cheeks were faintly pink, and there was something about the way he looked all dressed up in his suit, a few tufts of hair poking up over the side of his kippah. His tie was crooked though, like he’d tugged on it the moment he’d come through the door, and when Eric glanced down, he saw Jack’s feet were only in socks.

“Thank you, Bittle,” Jack said, very softly, then he took his plate and went upstairs, presumably to change.

Eric busied himself with cleaning up after everyone was settled. Someone broke out Monopoly which Eric politely—but wisely—declined, and still, there was no Jack. Trying not to fret, trying to set himself right and not get himself caught up in something that wasn’t, or something that was maybe, but he wasn’t brave enough to be sure about, he headed out onto the back porch and collapsed on the top step.

It was a nice afternoon, and it was only getting nicer as winter had fully given way to spring. Summer wasn’t that far off, and it hit Eric hard that this was going to be the last of it. Half the team would be gone, and that was it. There wasn’t any more. Eric would have to decide what the hell he was doing with his life, decide how he was going to handle his parents, decide how bravely he wanted to face the rest of the world after setting foot outside of these doors.

And it was silly. It wasn’t like he knew these people long, wasn’t like he’d spent half his life here on the Samwell team. He’d been snatched away from Georgia and plonked into this life without ceremony, and somehow they’d come to feel more like family than anyone else ever had.

It was a lot.

His throat felt tight, and he was so in his head, he didn’t hear the door open and close until a hand fell on his shoulder and a voice asked, “Did you get anything to eat?”

Eric turned his head and he saw Jack there holding a plate with a bit of the French toast, covered in some of the strawberries Eric had sliced earlier. They were sprinkled with castor sugar, just the way Eric liked, and he let out a slightly choked laugh as he took it from Jack.

“You paid attention,” he said.

Jack eased down next to him, now in joggers and a t-shirt, and he gave a nod. “I do that sometimes.”

Eric felt his eyes close, just for a moment, and he tried to ignore the white-hot fear that this was going somewhere definite. Like something was about to be defined, and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that. “Thank you,” he said, after remembering his manners. He pushed a strawberry through a loose pile of sugar and ate it.

Jack hummed, but said nothing as Eric began to tear into his food without the fork. He wasn’t really hungry—his stomach was too in knots for it, but the sweetness was nice, and it was distracting. And Jack seemed to be waiting for something.

“So last night…” Eric began.

“I was…” Jack started at the same time. 

They shared a quiet laugh, then Eric elbowed Jack. “You go ahead.”

Jack took a breath, then said, “I wasn’t doing very well last night, and you being there helped. I…thank you. I wanted to say thank you. You didn’t have to stay.”

_Yes I did_ , he wanted to say. But he didn’t. “I care about you.”

Jack dipped his head forward and said, “Yeah. I know.”

It was telling. It was so telling. It told Eric he’d been obvious and Jack knew and god… _god_ he’d spent all this time being embarrassingly obvious about this stupid crush, and it’s not like Jack would ever look twice at him and…

“I didn’t think I deserved it,” Jack carried on. “But you’re there, every time. And you always went out of your way to make sure I felt like a person, even when I know I didn’t deserve it…”

“You’ve always deserved that, Jack,” Eric said, his voice tight.

Jack shifted, turning to face Eric, his expression determined. “I wanted you to be like him—to be like Parse, because it would be easier to just hate you and focus on baseball than deal with the fact that you’re so good, and you deserve so much more than…than whatever life gave you before this.”

Eric blinked, his eyes hot, but he was determined to keep it together.

“But you wouldn’t let me, and I think I’m…” Jack blew out a puff of air and turned his face up toward the sky. “I’m grateful for it. Now.”

Eric let out a watery laugh and shook his head. “Thank you? I think?”

Jack’s lips twitched into a half smile. “What were you going to say before?”

Eric felt his whole body grow flush-hot, and he squeezed his hands into tight fists because he wasn’t really sure _what_ he’d been about to say. A confession? An apology? “You were upset last night and I was afraid I’d over-stepped…”

“I signed my contract. It’s official.” Jack swallowed so loud, Eric could hear it click in the back of his throat. “My dad wasn’t thrilled about it—I think he wanted me to…” Jack shrugged. “I don’t know what he wanted me to do. Maybe I’m just projecting.”

Eric let out a quiet laugh. “Honey, I can guarantee you are. You could sign up to coach little league and your dad would be over the dang moon with pride and start a tweet storm about how you’re going to revolutionise the little league industry or something.”

Jack’s cheeks pinked again, and he huffed a laugh. “I see why he likes you.”

Eric made a quiet, meep sound. “He…what.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “You charm everyone, Bits. Everyone.”

“Not everyone,” Eric pointed out. “Not you…”

“Especially me,” Jack said. Then suddenly he was closer, and his hand lifted and it brushed fringe from Eric’s forehead which made his lungs seize. “I told them I’d sign, but they couldn’t hold me to…any sort of morality clauses. They can’t…they can’t keep me quiet. I’m going to come out. Or well…maybe not. Maybe not that. But I’m not going to hide.”

“What are you…” Eric managed, but then Jack’s hand was on his jaw, covering almost all of his cheek, and staring at him like Eric was the only thing on the planet.

“I was pretty sure—I was hoping,” Jack said, like the words pained him, “you’d be happy about that. Because I’m…I haven’t felt this way in a long time. Maybe ever. And I don’t think I could hide this. Not you. Never you.”

“If you don’t kiss me right now,” Eric said, the words falling from his mouth like he had no choice, “I’m literally going to die.”

“Literally,” Jack said with a faint smirk, and then he did. He leant forward, and he did.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry I don't have it in me to do more than this, so your epilogue is 340 words of just...fluff. And hope.

They lose. Bitterly. Terribly. Eric out by the top of the fourth after not paying attention to the twinge in his shoulder. BU gets a home-run off that final pitch with bases loaded, and they just can’t seem to catch up or regain their morale and…

And that’s it.

Jack’s final game as a college student, with a future ahead of him forty-five minutes away in Providence with the Falconers who have had decent World Series prospects, but haven’t yet been able to _get_ there.

Eric was thrilled for him, mostly because it was so close, but he hates himself a little because he feels like he denied Jack this one thing, this one, big, important thing he’d worked so fucking hard for.

It doesn’t go like Eric expects. It doesn’t end with Jack’s disappointed face, or a, ‘we need to talk’, or Jack pulling away from Eric as he carefully sets a hand on his shoulder.

Instead he gets Jack fussing over the injury, and poking at the ice pack now wrapped to his shoulder, and holding his face while he kisses Eric over and over and over as the team wolf-whistles and makes jokes about their wedding.

It could be so much worse.

But it isn’t.

*** 

“So this is it.” Jack’s hands flop to his sides, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with the, and Eric felt stuck in the doorway like he’s not sure he can step over the threshold, like he wasn’t sure yet if he was welcome.

Jack turned and looked at him, giving him a fond smile and a little eye-roll, and dragged him over by the hips, kissing him as the door clicked shut behind them. Inside, it felt like a bubble, like a private universe of their own.

“Welcome home,” Jack whispered against his lips.

Eric laughed, holding Jack’s hips as his bag slipped to the floor and his mouth stayed within reach of Jack’s. “Thank you, sweetpea.”

His eyes closed, and yeah, that’s what the feeling is.

Home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and they lived happily ever after.
> 
> I'm taking a fairly long hiatus from Check, Please. I'm struggling with it, (I've been getting so much hate on tumblr I've had to shut down my anon asks, and that kind of wears on a person, you know?). But I'll still be writing for other fandoms, and hiatus isn't forever. Just for now. I did take down a couple of WIPs for the sake that I don't know when or if they'd ever get finished, so it was just better this way. I marked my Juice Bar au as finished because I don't really think I have it in me to finish that one (that one seemed to trigger the most anon hate for some reason) and deal with the fandom on top of the massive amount of work I still have for school. Next term is going to be even heavier than this one.
> 
> Anyway I'll still be writing for Star Wars (working on the big bang) Captive Prince, and Harry Potter, so if you follow those fandoms, you'll definitely see more work there from me. I'm not going quiet, just taking a hiatus from omgcp for my own peace of mind. Thank you for all the wonderful comments on this, though!! Everyone on ao3 has been amazing and I appreciate every one of you <3

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to come yell at me on tumblr- [angryspace-ravenclaw](https://angryspace-ravenclaw.tumblr.com).


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